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AUTHOR: 


FARRAR,  F.  W. 


TITLE: 


SEEKERS  AFTER  GOD 


PLACE: 


NEW  YORK 


DA  TE : 


1883 


COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARIES 
PRESERVATION  DEPARTMENT 


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BIBLIOGRAPHIC  MICROFORM  TARGET 


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Original  Material  as  Filmed  -  Existing  Bibliographic  Record 


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•  F243 


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■  II  I  iij ' ' 


It  1  '<i  lin'iM  rtiWit/OiitflHiaty:- 


Parrar,  Frederic  William,  1831-1903. 

Seekers  after  God,  by  the-Sev.  F.  W.  Farrar  ...    Ght 
cago=^nd  New  York,  Belfordr€larke^&-eoim)any-rl8— i 

305  p.    19^-.  *^^^  ^»   Alden,    1883. 

CoNTENTS.—Seneca.— Epictetus.—Marcus  Aurelius. 

Copy  in -BRrnard-Gollo^e-Librm^y., — U^w-York, 


I.  Title. 


Library  of  Congress 


(     ) 


16-12975 


TECHNICAL  MICROFORM  DATA 


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Columbia  Unitjersfftp 

THE  LIBRARIES 


SEEKERS  AFTER  GOD 


BY 

F.    W.    FARKAK 

AUTHOR  OF 


''the  life  of  CHRIST,"    "THE   EARLY  DAYS  OF  CHRISTIANITY,"  ETC. 


NEW   YORK 
JOHN     B.     ALDEN,     PUBLISHER 

1883 


SEEKERS    AFTER    GOD. 


SENECA. 

♦*Cenuagefrangede  rayons  qui  toucbe  presqu'  a  Pimmortelle  aurore 

des  verites  chretiennes."— PONTMAOTIN. 

INTRODUCTORY. 

On    the  banks  of   the  Baetis— the  modern  Guadalquiver, 

and  under  the  woods  that  crown  the  southern  slopes  of 

the  Sierra  Morena,  Hes  the  beautiful  and  famous  city  of 
Cordova.  It  had  been  selected  by  Marcellus  as  the  site 
of  a  Roman  colony  ;  and  so  many  Romans  and  Span- 
iards of  high  rank  chose  it  for  their  residence,  that  it  ob- 
tained from  Augustus  the  honourable  surname  of  the 
"  Patrician  Colony."  Spain,  during  this  period  of  the 
Empire,  exercised  no  small  influence  upon  the  literature 
and  politics  of  Rome.  No  less  than  three  great  Em- 
perors—Trajan, Hadrian,  and  Theodosius,— were  natives 
of  Spain.  Columella,  the  writer  on  agriculture,  was  born 
at  Cadiz ;  Quintillan,  the  great  writer  on  the  education  of 
an  orator,  was  born  at  Calahorra ;  the  poet  Martial  was  a 
native  of  Bilbilis ;  but  Cordova  could  boast  the  yet  higher 
honour  of  having  given  birth  to  the  Senecas,  an  honour 
which  won  for  it  the  epithet  of  "  The  Eloquent."     A  ruin 


SENECA, 


is  shown  to  modern  travellers  which  is  popularly  called 
the  House  of  Seneca,  and  the  fact  is  at  least  a  proof 
that  the  city  still  retains  some  memory  of  its  illustrious 
sons. 

Marcus  Annaeus  Seneca,  the  father  of  the  philosopher, 
was  by  rank  a  Roman  knight.  What  causes  had  led 
him  or  his  family  to  settle  in  Spain  we  do  not  know,  and 
the  names  Annaeus  and  Seneca  are  alike  obscure.  It  has 
been  vaguely  conjectured  that  both  names  may  involve 
an  allusion  to  the  longevity  of  some  of  the  founders  of 
the  familv,  for  Annaeus  seems  to  be  connected  with  annus, 
a  year,  and  Seneca  with  senex,  an  old  man.  The  common 
English  composite  plant  ragwort  is  called  senecio  from  the 
white  and  feathery  pappus  or  appendage  of  its  seeds ;  and 
similarly,  Isidore  says  that  the  first  Seneca  was  so  named 
because  'Mie  was  born  with  white  hair." 

Although  the  father  of  Seneca  was  of  knightly  rank, 
his  family  had  never  risen  to  any  eminence  ;  it  belonged 
to  the  class  of  iiouveaux  riches^  and  we  do  not  know 
whether  it  was  of  Roman  or  of  Spanish  descent.  But 
his  mother  Helvia — an  uncommon  name,  which,  by  a  curi- 
ous coincidence,  belonged  also  to  the  mother  of  Cicero — 
was  a  Spanish  lady ;  and  it  was  from  her  that  Seneca,  as 
well  as  his  famous  nephew,  the  poet  Lucan,  doubtless 
derived  many  of  the  traits  which  mark  their  intellect  and 
their  character.  There  was  in  the  Spaniard  a  richness 
and  splendour  of  imagination,  an  intensity  and  warmth,  a 
touch  of  "  phantasy  and  flame,"  which  we  find  in  these  two 
men  of  genius,  and  which  was  wholly  wanting  to  the 
Roman  temperament. 

*    Of  Cordova  itself,  except  in  a  single  epigram,    Seneca 
makes  no  mention ;  but  this  epigram   suffices  to  show  that 


INTRODUCTORY, 


he  must  have  been  famihar  with  its  stirring  and  memor- 
able traditions.  The  elder  Seneca  must  have  been  hvins: 
at  Cordova  during  all  the  troublous  years  of  civil  war, 
when  his  native  city  caused  equal  offence  to  Pompey  and 
to  Caesar.  Doubtless,  too,  he  would  have  had  stories  to 
tell  of  the  noble  Sertorius,  and  of  the  tame  fawn  which 
gained  for  him  the  credit  of  divine  assistance;  and  contem- 
porary reminiscences  of  that  day  of  desperate  disaster  when 
Caesar,  indignant  that  Cordova  should  have  embraced  the 
cause  of  the  sons  of  Pompey,  avenged  himself  by  a  massa- 
cre of  22,000  of  the  citizens.  From  his  mother  Helvia, 
Seneca  must  often  have  heard  about  the  fierce  and  gallant 
struggle  in  which  her  country  had  resisted  the  iron  yoke  of 
Rome.  Many  a  time  as  a  boy  must  he  have  been  told 
how  long  and  how  heroically  Saguntum  had  withstood  the 
assaults  and  baffled  the  triumph  of  Hannibal ;  how  bravely 
Viriathus  had  fought,  and  how  shamefully  he  fell ;  and  how 
at  length  the  unequal  contest,  which  reduced  Spain  to  the 
condition  of  a  province,  was  closed,  when  the  heroic  de- 
fenders of  Numantia,  rather  than  yield  to  Scipio,  reduced 
their  city  to  a  heap  of  blood-stained  ruins. 

But,  whatever  may  have  been  the  extent  to  which  Seneca 
was  influenced  by  the  Spanish  blood  which  flowed  in  his 
veins,  and  the  Spanish  legends  on  which  his  youth  was  fed, 
it  was  not  in  Spain  that  his  lot  was  cast.  When  he  was 
yet  an  infant  in  arms  his  fat]:er,  with  all  his  family,  emi- 
grated from  Cordova  to  Rome.  What  may  have  been  the 
special  reason  for  this  important  step  we  do  not  know ; 
possibly,  like  the  father  of  Horace,  the  elder  Seneca  may 
have  sought  a  better  education  for  his  sons  than  could  be 
provided  by  even  so  celebrated  a  provincial  town  as  Cor- 
dova ;    possibly — for  he  belonged  to  a  somewhat  pushing 


SENECA. 


family — he  may  have   desired    to  gain   fresh    wealth    and 
honour  in  the  imperial  city. 

Thither  we  must  follow  him;  and,  as  it  is  our  object  not 
only  to  depict  a  character  but  also  to  sketch  the  character- 
istics of  a  very  memorable  age  in  the  world's  history,  we 
must  try  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  family  in  the  midst  of 
which  our  young  philosopher  grew  up,  of  tlie  kind  of  edu- 
cation which  he  received,  and  of  the  influences  which  were 
likely  to  tell  upon  him  during  his  childish  and  youthful 
years.  Only  by  such  means  shall  we  be  able  to  judge  of 
him  aright.  And  it  is  worth  while  to  try  and  gain  a  right 
conception  of  the  man,  not  only  because  he  was  very  em- 
inent as  a  poet,  an  author,  and  a  politician,  not  only  be- 
cause he  fills  a  very  prominent  place  in  the  pages  of  the 
great  historian,  who  has  drawn  so  immortal  a  picture  of 
Rome  under  the  Emperors;  not  only  because  in  him  we 
can  best  study  the  inevitable  signs  which  mark,  even  in  the 
works  of  men  of  genius,  a  degraded  people  and  a  decaying 
literature ;  but  because  he  was,  as  the  title  of  this  volume 
designates  him,  a  ''Seeker  after  God."     Whatever  may 

have  been  the  dark  and  questionable  actions  of  his  Hfe 

and  in  this  narrative  we  shall  endeavor  to  furnish  a  plain  and 

unvarnished  picture  of  the  manner  in  which  he  lived, it  is 

certain  that,  as  a  philosopher  and  as  a  moralist,  he  fur- 
nishes us  with  the  grandest  and  most  eloquent  series  of 
truths  to  which,  unilluminated  by  Christianity,  the 
thoughts  of  man  have  ever  attained.  The  purest  and 
most  exalted  philosophic  sect  of  antiquity  was  ''  the  sect 
of  the  Stoics;"  and  Stoicism  never  found  a  literary 
exponent  more  ardent,  more  eloquent,  or  more  enlightened 
than  Lucius  Annaeus  Seneca.  So  nearly,  in  fact,  does 
he   seem    to  have    arrived    at    the    truths  of  Christianity, 


INTRODUCTOR  K 


that  to  many  it  seemed  a  matter  for  marvel  that  he  could 
have  known  them  without  having  heard  them  from  inspired 
lips.  He  is  constantly  cited  with  approbation  by  some  of 
the  most  eminent  Christian  fathers.  Tertullian,  Lactan- 
tius,  even  St.  Augustine  himself,  quote  his  words  with 
marked  admiration,  and  St.  Jerome  appeals  to  him  as  '''our 
Seneca."  The  Council  of  Trent  go  further  still,  and  quote 
him  as  though  he  were  an  acknowledged  father  of  the 
Church.  For  many  centuries  there  vv^ere  some  who  ac 
cepted  as  genuine  the  spurious  letters  supposed  to  have 
been  interchanged  between  Seneca  and  St.  Paul,  in  which 
Seneca  is  made  to  express  a  wish  to  hold  among  the 
Pagans  the  same  beneficial  position  which  St.  Paul  held  in 
the  Christian  world.  The  possibility  of  such  an  intercourse, 
the  nature  and  extent  of  such  supposed  obligations,  will 
come  under  our  consideratioii- hereafter.  All  that  I  here 
desire  to  say  is,  that  in  considering  the  life  of  Seneca  we 
are  not  only  dealing  with  a  life  which  was  rich  in  memor- 
able incidents,  and  which  was  cast  into  an  age  upon  which 
Christianity  dawned  as  a  new  light  in  the  darkness,  but  also 
the  life  of  one  who  climbed  the  loftiest  peaks  of  the  moral 
philosophy  of  Paganism,  and  who  in  many  respects  may  be 
regarded  as  the  Coryphaeus  of  what  has  been  sometimes 
called  a  Natural  Religion. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  turn  aside  from  the  narrative  in 
order  to  indulge  in  moral  reflections,  because  such  reflec- 
tions will  come  with  tenfold  force  if  they  are  naturally 
*  suggested  to  the  reader's  mind  by  the  circumstances  of  the 
biography.  But  from  first  to  last  it  will  be  abundantly 
obvious  to  every  thoughtful  mind  that  alike  the  morality 
and  the  philosophy  of  Paganism,  as  contrasted  with  the 
splendour  of  revealed  truth  and  the  holiness  of  Christian 


8 


SENECA. 


life,  are  but  as  moonlight  is  to  sunlight.  The  Stoical 
philosophy  may  be  compared  to  a  torch  which  flings  a 
faint  gleam  here  and  there  in  tlie  dusky  recesses  of  a 
mighty  cavern;  Christianity  to  the  sun  pouring  into  the 
inmost  depths  of  the  same  cavern  its  sevenfold  illumination. 
The  torch  had  a  value  and  brightness  of  its  own,  but 
compared  with  the  dawning  of  that  new  glory  it  appears 
to  be  dim  and  ineffectual,  even  though  its  brightness  was 
a  real  brightness,  and  had  been  drawn  from  the  same 
etherial  source. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE    FAMILY    AND    EARLY    YEARS    OF    SENECA. 

The  exact  aate  of  Seneca  s  birth  is  uncertain,  but  it  took 
place  in  all  probability  about  seven  years  before  the  com- 
mencement of  the  Christian  era.  It  will  give  to  his  life  a 
touch  of  deep  and  solemn  interest  if  we  remember  that, 
during  all  those  guilty  and  stormy  scenes  amid  which  his 
earlier  destiny  was  cast,  there  lived  and  taught  in  Palestine 
the  Son  of  God,  the  Saviour  of  the  world. 

The  problems  which  for  many  years  tormented  his  mind 
were    beginning    to    find    their    solution,    amid    far    other 
scenes,   by  men  whose   creed  and   condition  he  despised. 
While   Seneca   was   being   guarded   by  his   attendant  slave 
through  the  crowded  and  dangerous  streets  of  Rome  on  his 
way  to  school,  St.  Peter  and  St.  John  were  fisher-lads  by 
the  shores  of   Gennesareth  ;    while   Seneca  was    ardently 
assimilating  the  doctrine  of  the  stoic  Attains,  St.  Paul,  with 
no  less  fervancy  of  soul,  sat  learning  at  the  feet  of  Gama- 
liel;   and  long  before   Seneci  had  made  his  way,  through 
paths   dizzy   and   dubious,  to   the   zenith  of  his   fame,    un- 
known to  him    that    Saviour  had    been  crucified  through 
whose  only  merits  he  and  we  can  ever  attain  to  our  final 

rest. 

Seneca  was  about  two  years  old  when  he  was  carried  to 


SENECA, 


Rome  in  his  nurse's  arms.  Like  many  other  men  who 
have  succeeded  in  attaining  eminence,  he  suffered  much 
from  ill-health  in  his  early  years.  He  tells  us  of  one 
serious  illness  from  which  he  slowly  recovered  under  the 
affectionate  and  tender  nursing  of  his  mother's  sister.  All 
his  life  long  he  was  subject  to  attacks  of  asthma,  which, 
after  suffering  every  form  of  disease,  he  says  that  he  con- 
siders to  be  the  worst.  At  one  time  his  personal  sufferings 
weighed  so  heavily  on  his  spirits  that  nothing  save  a  re- 
gard for  his  father's  wishes  prevented  him  from  suicide ; 
and  later  in  life  he  was  only  withheld  from  seeking  the 
deliverance  of  death  by  the  tender  affection  of  his  wife 
Paulina.  He  might  have  used  with  little  alteration  the 
words  of  Pope,  that  his  various  studies  but  served  to  help 
him 

**  Through  this  long  disease^  my  life,"*^ 

The  recovery  from  this  tedious  illness  is  the  only  allusion 
which  Seneca  has  made  to  the  circumstances  of  his  child^ 
hood.  The  ancient  writers,  even  the  ancient  poets,  but 
rarely  refer,  even  in  the  most  cursory  manner,  to  their  early 
years.  The  cause  of  this  reticence  offers  a  curious  problem 
for  our  inquiry,  but  the  fact  is  indisputable.  Whereas 
there  is  scarcely  a  single  modern  poet  who  has  not  lin- 
r;ered  with  undisguised  feelings  of  happiness  over  the  gentle 
memories  of  his  childhood,  not  one  of  the  ancient  poets 
has  systematically  touched  upon  the  theme  at  all.  From 
Lydgate  down  to  Tennyson,  it  would  be  easy  to  quote  from 
our  English  poets  a  continuous  line  of  lyric  songs  on  the  sub- 
ject of  boyish  years.  How  to  the  young  child  the  fir-trees 
^:eemed  to  touch  the  sky,  how  his  heart  leaped  up  at  the 
sight  of  the  rainbow,  how  he  sat  at  his  mother's  feet  and 


H/S  FAMILY  A XD  EARLY  YEARS, 


II 


pricked  into  paper  the  tissued  flowers  of  her  dress,  how  he 
chased  tlie  bright  butterfly,  or  in  his  tenderness  feared  to 
br.ish  even  the  dust  from  off  its  wings,  how  he  learnt  sweet 
lessons  and  said  innocent  prayers  at  h:s  father's  knee  ;  trifles 
like  these,  yet  trifles  which  may  have  been  rendered  noble 
and  beautiful  by  a  loving  imagination,  have  been  narrated 
over  and  over  agaiii  in  the  songs  of  our  poets.  The  lovely 
lines  of  Henry  Vaughan  might  be  taken  as  a  type  of  thous- 
ands more  : — 

'•  Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 
Shined  in  my  Angel  infancy. 
Before  T  understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  aught 
But  a  white  celestial  thought  ; 


Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound 
Or  had  the  hlack  art  to  dispense 
A  several  sin  to  every  sense  ; 
But  felt  through  all  tliis  fleshy  dress, 
Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness." 

The  memory  of  every  student  of  English  poetry  will  fur- 
nish countless  parallels  to  thoughts  hke  these.  How  is  it 
that  no  similar  poem  could  be  quoted  from  the  whole  range 
of  ancient  literature  ?  How  is  it  that  to  the  Greek  and 
Roman  poets  that  morning  of  liie,  which  should  have  been 
e.o  filled  with  ''  natural  blessedness,"  seems  to  have  been  a 
blank  ?  How  is  is  it  that  writers  so  voluminous,  so  do- 
mestic, so  a.Yectionate  as  Cicero,  Virgil,  and  Horace  do 
not  make  so  much  as  a  single  allusion  to  the  existence  of 
their  own  mothers  ? 

To  answer  this  question  fully  would  be  to  MTite  an  entire 


12 


SEXECA, 


HIS  FAMILY  AND  EARLY  YEARS. 


13 


essay  on  the  difference  between  ancient  a:id  modern  life, 
and  would  carry  nie  far  away  from  my  immediate  subject.* 
But  I  may  say  generally,  that  the  explanation  rests  in  the 
fact  that  in  all  probability  childhood  among  the  ancients 
was  a  disregarded,  and  in  most  cases  a  far  less  happv, 
period  than  it  is  with  us.     The  birth  of  a  child  in  the  house 
of  a  Greek  or  a  Roma  1   .13  not  necessarily  a  subject  for  re 
joicing.     If  the  father,  when   the  child  was  first  shown  to 
him,  stooped  down  and  took  it  in  his  arms,  it  was  received 
as  a  member  of  the  family ;    if  he  left  it  unnoticed  then  it 
was  doomed  to  death,  and  was  exposed  in  some  lonely  or 
barren  place  to  the  mercy  of  the  wild  beasts,  or  of  the  first 
passer-by.     And  even  if  a  child  escaped  ;hs  fate,  yet  for 
the  first  seven  or  eight  years  of  life  he  was  kept  in  the 
gynaeceum,  or  women's  apartments,    and  rarely    or  never 
saw  his  father's  face.      No  lialo  of  romance  or  poetry  was 
shed  over  those  early  years.      Until  the  child  was  full  grown 
the  absolute  power  of  life  or  death  rested  in  his  father's 
hands;    he  had   no  freedom,   and  met  with   little   notice. 
For  individual  life  the  ancients  had  a  very  slight  regard; 
there  was  nothing  autobiographic  or  introspective  in  their 
temperament.     With  them  public  life,  the  life  of  the  State, 
was  everything;    domestic  life,  the  life  of   the  individual, 
occupied  but  a  small  share  of  their  consideration.     All  the 
innocent  pleasures  of  infancy,  the  joys  of  the  hearth,  the 
charm  of  the  domestic  circle,  the  flow  and  sparkle  of  child- 
ish gaity,  were  by  them  but  little  appreciated.     The  years 
before  manhood  were  years  of  prospect,  and  in  most  cases 

*  See,  however,  the  same  question  treated  from  a  somewhat  different 
point  of  view  by  M.  Nisard,  in  his  charming  Etudes  sur  les  Poetes  de  la 
Decadence,  ii.  17,  sqq. 


X 


*1 


they  offered  but  little  to  make  them  worth  the  retrospect. 
It  is  a  mark  of  the  more  modern  character  which  stamps 
the  writings  of  Seneca,  as  compared  with  earlier  authors, 
that  he  addresses  liis  mother  in  terms  of  the  deepest  affec- 
tion, and  cannot  speak  of  his  darling  little  son  except  m  a 
voice  that  seems  to  break  with  tears. 

Let  us  add  another  curious  consideration.  The  growth 
of  the  personal  character,  the  reminiscences  of  a  hfe  ad- 
vancing into  perfect  consciousness,  are  largely  moulded  by 
the  gradual  recognition  of  morallaws,  by  the  sense  of  mystery 
evolved  in  the  inevitable  struggle  between  duty  and  pleas- 
ure —between  the  desire  to  do  right  and  the  temptalion  to 
do 'wrong.  But  among  the  ancients  the  conception  cf 
morality  was  so  wholly  different  from  ours,  their  notions  of 
moral  obligation  were,  in  the  immense  majority  of  cases,  so 
much  less  stringent  and  so  much  less  important,  they  had 
so  faint  a  disapproval  for  sins  which  we  condemn,  and  so 
weak  an  indignation  against  vices  which  we  abhor,  that  m 
their  early  years  we  can  hardly  suppose  tliem  to  have  often 
fathomed  those  "  abysmal  deeps  of  personality,"  the  recog- 
nition of  which  is  a  necessary  element  of  marked  mdividual 

growth.  .  ... 

We  have,  therefore,  no  materials  for  formmg  an)-  Mvid 
picture  of  Seneca's  childhood ;  but,  from  what  we  gather 
about  the  circumstances  and  the  character  of  his  fa:m!y,  we 
should  suppose  that  he  was  exceptionally  fortunate.  The 
Senecas  were  wealthy ;  they  held  a  good  position  ui  society; 
they  were  a  family  of  cultivated  taste,  of  literary  pursuits, 
of  hi"h  character,  and  of  amiable  dispositions.  Their 
wealth  raised  them  above  the  necessity  ot  those  rriean 
ca-es  and  degrading  shifts  to  eke  out  a  scanty  livelihood 
which  maxk  the  career  of  other  literary  men  who  were  their 


H 


SENECA, 


contemporaries.  Their  rank  and  culture  secured  them  the 
intimacy  of  ail  who  were  best  worth  knowing  in  Roman 
circles ;  and  the  general  dignity  and  morality  which  marked 
their  lives  would  free  them  from  all  likelihood  of  being 
thrown  into  close  intercourse  with  the  numerous  class  of 
luxurious  epicureans,  whose  unblushing  and  unbounded 
vice  gave  an  infamous  notority  to  the  capital  of  the 
world. 

Of  Marcus  Anna^us  Seneca,  the  father  of  our  philosopher, 
we  know  few  personal  particulars,   except  tliat  he  was  a 
professional  rhetorician,   wlio  drew   up   for  the   use  of  his 
sons  and   pupils  a  number  of  oratorical  exercises,  which 
have   come   down  to  us  under  tlie   names  of  SHasoricv  and 
Controversion,     1^hey  are  a  series  of  declamatory  arguments 
on  both   sides,  respecting  a  number  of  historical  or  purely 
imaginary  subjects;  and  it  would  be  impossible  to  conceive 
any  reading    more   utterly    unprofitable.       But    the    elder 
Seneca  was  steeped  to  the  lips  in  an  artificial  rhetoric;  and 
these   highly  elaborated   arguments,    invented  in   order   to 
sharpen    the    faculties    for    purposes    of   declamation    and 
debate,  were  probably  due    partly  to  his    note-book  and 
jl  partly  to  his  memory.     His  memory  was  so  prodigious  that 
after  hearing  two  thousand  words  he  could  repeat  them 
again  in  the  same  order.     Few  of  those  who  have  possessed 
such  extraordinary  powers  of  memory   have   been  men  of 
first-rate   talent,  and   the   elder  Seneca  was  no   exception. 
But  if  his  memory  did  not  improve  his  original  genius,  it 
must  at  any  rate  have  made  him  a  very  agreeable  member 
of  society,  and  have  furnished  him  with  an  abundant  store 
of  personal   and    poHtical   anecdotes.     In   short,    Marcus 
Seneca  was  a  welLto-do,  intelligent  man  of  the  world,  with, 
plenty  of  common   sense,  with  a  turn  for  public  speaking, 


HIS  FAMILY  AND  EARLY  YEARS, 


IS 


with  a  profound  dislike  and  contempt  for  anything  which 
lie  considered  philosophical  or  fantastic,  and  with  a  keen 
eye  to  tlie  main  advantage. 

His  wife   Helvia,  if  we  may  trust  the   panegyric  of  her 
son,  was  on  the   other  hand  a  far  less   common-place  char- 
acter.    But  for  her  husband's  dislike  to  learning  and  phil- 
osophy she  would  have  become  a  proficient  in  both,  and  in 
a  short   period  of  study  she  had  made  a  considerable   ad- 
vance.      Yet  her  intellect  was   less    remarkable   than   the 
nobility  and  sweetness  of  her  mind ;   other  mothers  loved 
their  sons  because  their  own    ambition  was   gratified  Dy 
their  honours,  and  their   feminine  wants   supplied  by  their 
riches;    but   Helvia   loved  her  sons  for  their  own  sakes, 
treated  them  with  liberal  generosity,  but  refused  to  reap 
any   personal    benefit   from    their    wealth,    managed   their 
patrimonies   with    disinterested    zeal,    and    spent    her  own 
money  to  bear  the  expenses  of  their  political  career.      She 
rose  superior  to  the  foibles  and  vices  of  her  time.     Immo- 
desty, the  plague-spot  of  her  age,  had  never  infected  her 
pure  life.      Gems  and  pearls  iiad  little  charms  for  her.      She 
was  never  ashamed  of  her  children,  as  though  their  presence 
betrayed  her  own   advancing  age.       ''You    never  stained 
your  face,"  says  her  son,  when  writing  to  console  her  in  his 
exile,    '•  with  walnut-juice  or  rouge  ;  you  never  delighted  in 
dresses  indelicately  low ;   your  single  ornament  was  a  love- 
liness which    no    age    could    destroy;    your  special    glory 
was  a  conspicuous  chastity."     We  may  well  say  with  Mr. 

Tennyson — 

**  Happy  he 

With  such  a  mother!  faith  in  womankind 

Beats  with  his  blood,  and  trust  in  all  things  high 

Comes  easy  to  him,  and,  though  he  trip  and  fail, 

He  shall  not  blind  his  soul  with  clay." 


i6 


SENECA. 


Nor  was  his  mother  Helvia  the  only  high-minded  lady  in 
whove  society  the  boyhood  of  Seiieca  was  spent.       Her 
sister,  whose  name  is  unknown,  that  aunt  w'no  had  so  ten- 
derly protected  the  delicate  boy,  and  nursed  him  through 
tlie  sickness  of  his  infancy,  seems  to  have  inspired  him  with 
an   affection  of  unusual  warmth.      He   tells  us   how,  when 
her  husband  was  Prefect  of  Egypt,  so  far  was  she  from  act- 
ing as  was  usual  with  the  wives  of  i)rovinc*al  governors,  that 
she  v/as  as  much  respected  and  beloved  as  ihey  were  for 
the  most  i)art  execrated  and  shunned.     So  serious  was  the 
ev;i  caused  by  tliese  ladies,  so  intollerable  was  their  cruel 
ra|)acity,  that  it  had   been   seriously  debated  in   the  Senate 
whether  they  should  ever  be   allowed  to   accompany  their 
husbands.     Not  so  with    Helvia's  sister.     She  was  never 
seen  in  public;  she  allowed  no  provincial  to  visit  her  house; 
she  begged  no  favour  for  herself,  and  suffered  none  to  be 
begged  from  her.     The  i)rovince  not  only  praised  her,  but, 
what  was   still   more   to   her  credit,   barely  knew  anything 
about  her,  and  longed  in  vain  for  another  lady  who  should 
imitate  her  virtue  and  self-control.     Egypt  was  the  head- 
quarters for  biting  aid  loquacious  calumny,  3 et  even  Egypt 
never   breathed  a  word    against    the  sanctity  of   her  life. 
And  when    during     their  homeward    vova-e  her  husband 
died,  in    spite  of   danger    and    tempest    and    the    deeply- 
rooted    superstition    which    considered  it  perilous    to    sail 
with  a  corpse  o;i  board,   not  e\en  the  imminent  peril  of 
shipwreck    could  drive  her  to    separate    Iierself   from  her 
luisband's    body  until  she    had  provided  for    its  safe  and 
honorable  sepulclire.     I'hese  are  tlie  traits  of  a  good  an! 
iiero.c  woman ;  an<l  that  she  reciprocated  the  regard  wh  ch 
ina'ces  her  nephew  so  emjihatic  in  lier  praise  mav  Ije  con- 
jectured from  the  fact  that,  when  he  made  his  J/fiuf  as  a 


mS  FAMILY  AND  EARLY  YEARS. 


17 


candidate  for  the  honours  of  the  State,  she  emerged  from 
her  habitual  seclusion,  laid  aside  for  a  time  her  matronly 
reserve,  and,  in  order  to  assist  him  in  his  canvass,  faced  for 
his  sake  the  rustic  impertinence  and  ambitious  turbulence 
of  the    crowds  who  thronged  the   Forum  and  the  streets 

of  Rome. 

Two  brothers,  very  different  from  each  other  in  their 
habits  and  character,  completed  the  family  circle,  Marcus 
Annseus  Novatus  and  Lucius  Annaeus  Mela,  of  whom  the 
former   was    older    the  latter  younger,    than    their    more 

famous  brother. 

Marcus  Annseus  Novatus  is  known  to  history  under  the 
name  of  Junius  GaUio,  which  he  took  when  adopted  by  the 
orator  of  that  name,  who  was  a  friend  of  his  father.  He  is 
none  other  than  the  GaUio  of  the  Acts,  the  Proconsul  ot 
Achaia,  whose  name  has  passed  current  among  Christians 
as  a  proverb  of  complacent  indifference.* 

The   scene,   however,    in   which    Scripture   gives   us   a 
gUmpse  of  him  has  been  much  misunderstood,  and  to  talk  of 
him  as  "careless  Gallio,"  or  to  api)ly  the  expression  that  '•  he 
cared  for  none  of  these  things,"  to  indifference  in  religious 
matters,  is  entirely  to  misapply  the  spirit  of  the  narrative. 
What  really  happened  was  this.     The  Jews,   indignant  at 
the  success  of   Paul's  preaching,    dragged  him   before   the 
tribunal  of   Gallio,  and  accused  him  of  introducing  illegal 
modes  of  worship.     Wlien  tb.e  Apostle  was  about  to  defend 
him^e'f,  Gailio  contemptr.ously  cut  him  sho,t  bv  raying  to 
the  jews,   "  If  in  truth  there  were  in  question  any  act  oi  m- 
jvsfce    or    wcked    misconduct,    1    should    naturally    have 
tolerated  your  complaint.     But  if  this  is  some  verbal  in- 


*Acts  xxv.  19. 


i8 


SENECA. 


quiry  about  mere  technical  matters  of  your  law,  look  after 
it  yourselves.  1  do  not  choose  to  be  a  judge  of  such  mat- 
ters." With  these  words  he  drove  them  from  his  judgment- 
seat  with  exactly  the  same  fiiie  Roman  contempt  for  the 
jews  and  their  religious  affairs  as  was  subsequently  ex- 
pressed by  Festus  to  the  sceptical  Agrippa,  and  as  had 
been  expressed  previously  by  Pontius  Pilate*  to  the  tu- 
multous Pharisees.  Exulting  at  this  discomfiture  of  the 
hated  Jews  and  apparently  siding  willi  Paul,  the  Greeks 
then  went  in  a  body,  seized  Rosthenes,  the  leader  of  the 
Jewish  synagogue,  and  beat  him  in  full  view  of  the  Procon- 
sul seated  on  his  tribunal.  This  was  the  event  at  which 
Gallio  looked  on  with  such  imperturbable  disdain.  What 
could  it  possibly  matter  to  him,  the  great  Proconsul,  whether 
the  (jreeks  beat  a  poor  wretch  of  a  Jew  or  not  ?  So  long 
as  they  did  not  make  a  riot,  or  give  him  any  further  trouble 
about  the  matter,  they  might  beat  Sosthenes  or  any  number 
of  Jews  black  and  blue  if  it  pleased  them,  for  all  he  was 
likely  to  care. 

What  a  vivid  glimpse  do  we  here  obtain,  from  the 
graphic  picture  of  an  eye-witness,  of  the  daily  life  in  an 
ancient  provincial  forum  ;  how  completely  do  we  seem  to 
catch  sight  tor  a  moment   of  that   habitual  expression  of 

*  Matt,  xxvii.  24,  *'  See  ye  to  it."  Cf.  Acts  xiv.  15,  ''  Look  ye  to 
it.''  Toleration  existed  in  the  Roman  Empire,  and  the  magistrates 
often  interfered  to  protect  the  Jews  from  massacre  ;  hut  they  ahsolutc- 
ly  and  persistently  refused  to  trouble  themselves  with  any  attempt  to 
understand  their  doctrines  or  enter  into  their  disputes.  The  tradition 
that  Gallio  sent  some  of  St.  Paul's  writings  to  his  brother  Seneca  is 
utterly  absurd  ;  and  indeed  at  this  time  (a.  d.  54),  St.  Paul  had  writ- 
ten nothing  except  the  two  1  pis\s  to  the  Thessalonians.  TSee  Cony- 
beare  and  Howson,  St.  Paul,  v  )1.  1.  ch.  xii. ;  Aubertin,  S^negue  et  St. 
FauL) 


HIS  FAMIL  Y  AXD  EARL  V  YEARS.  19 

contempt  which  curled  the  thin  lips  of  a  Roman  aristocrat 
in  the  presence  of  subject  nations,  and  especially  of  Jews  1 
If  Seneca  had  come  across  any  of  the  Alexandrian  Jews  in 
his  Egyptian  travels,  the   only  impression  left  on  his  mind 
was   that   expressed   by  Tacitus,   Ju\'cnal,  and    Suetonius, 
who  never  mention  the  Jews  without    execration.     In  a 
passage,  quoted  by  St.    Augustine   [IJ^e  Cirif.  Dei,  iv.  11) 
from  his  lost  book  on  Superstitions,  Seneca  speaks  of  the 
multitude  of  their  proselytes,  and  calls  them  '^ gens  scelera- 
tissima^'  a  '' most  criminal  racer     Tt  has  been  often  con- 
jectured—it has  even  been  seriously  believed— that  Seneca 
had  personal  intercourse  with  St.  Paul  and  learnt  from  him 
some  lessons  of  Cliristianity.     The  scene  on  which  we  have 
just  been  gazing  will  show  us  the  utter  unlikelihood  of  such 
a  supposition.       Probably   the    nearest  opportunity  which 
ever  occurred  to   bring  the   Christian   Apostle  into  intel- 
lectual contact  with  the  Roman  philosopher  was  this  occa- 
sion, when  St.   Paul   was  dragged  as  a  prisoner  into  the 
presence  of  Seneca's  elder   brother.     The  utter  contempt 
and  indifference  with  which  he  was  treated,  the  manner  in 
which  he  was  summarily  cut  short  before  lie  could  even 
open    his   lips  in    his   own    defence,  will   give    us   a  just 
estimate    of  the    manner    in    which    Seneca    would    have 
been  likely  to  regard  St.    Paul.     It  is  highly  improbable 
that    Gallio    ever   retained    the    sligiitest    mipresssion    or 
memory  of    so    every-day    a    circumstance     as    this,    by 
which   alone  he   is   known  to    the  world.      It    is  possible 
that   he    had   not    even   heard    the  mere    name    of  Paul, 
and  that,  if  he  ever  thought  of  him  at  all,  it  was  only  as  a 
miserable,  ragged,  fanatical  Jew,  of  dim   eyes  and  dmim- 
utive  stature,  who  had  once  wished  to  inflxt  upon  hnn 
a  haran-ue,  and  who  had  once   come  for  a  few  moments 


2C 


SENECA. 


'M)etwixt  t'.ie  wind  and  his  nobility."  He  would  indeed 
have  been  unutterably  amazed  if  anyone  had  whispered  to 
him  that  well  nigh  the  sole  circumstance  which  would 
entitle  him  to  be  remembered  by  posterity,  and  the  sole 
e\'ent  of  his  life  by  which  he  would  be  at  all  generally 
known,  was  that  momentary  and  accidental  relation  to  his 
despised  prisoner. 

But  Novatus — or,  to  give  him  his  adopted  name,  Gallic 
— presented  to  his  brother  Seneca,  and  to  the  rest  of  the 
world,  a  very  different  aspect  from  that  under  whicii  we  a^e 
wont  to  think  of  him.  By  them  he  was  regarded  as  an 
illustrious  declaimer,  in  an  age  when  declama'ion  was  the 
most  valued  of  all  accomplishments.  It  was  true  that  there 
was  a  sort  of  *'  tinkle,"  a  certain  falsetto  tone  in  his  style, 
which  offended  men  of  robust  and  severe  taste ;  but  this 
meretricious  resonance  of  style  was  a  matter  of  envy  and 
admiration  wlien  a'Jectation  was  the  rage,  and  wiien  the 
times  were  too  enervated  and  too  corrupt  for  thiC  manly 
conciseness  and  concentrated  force  of  an  eloquence  dictated 
by  liberty  and  by  i)assion.  He  seems  to  have  acquired 
both  among  his  friends  and  among  strangers  the  epithet  of 
"dulcis,"  ''the  cuaraiing  or  fascinating  Gallio :"  ''This  is 
more,"  says  the  poet  Statins,  ''  than  to  have  given 
Seneca  to  the  world,  and  to  have  begolten  the  sweet 
Gallio."  Seneca's  portrait  of  him  is  singularly  faultless. 
He  says  that  no  one  w^as  so  gentle  to  any  one  as  Gallio 
was  to  every  one;  that  his  charm  of  manner  won  over 
even  the  people  whom  mere  chance  threw  in  Iris  wav, 
and  that  such  was  the  fo.ce  of  his  natural  goodness  that 
no  one  suspected  his  behaviour,  as  though  it  were  d  le 
to  art  or  simulation.  Speaking  of  flaitery,  in  his  fourth 
book  of   Natural    Questions,  he    says   to    his  friend    Lu- 


II IS  FAMILY  A XD  EARLY  YEARS. 


'>  T 


cilius,    '*I  used   to    say  to    you    that    my   brother    Gahio 
(whom     ez'ery  one   loves  a  Utile,  even  people    who  cannot 
lo7r  him  more)   was  wholly  ignorant  of   other    vices,  but 
even  detested  this.     You  might  try  him   in  any  direction. 
You    began    to    praise    his    intellect — an   intellect  of   the 
highest    and    worthiest    kind,  .   ,   .   and  he  walked  away! 
You    began  to    praise    his    moderation,   he    instantly    cat 
short  your  first  words.     You  began  to  express  admiration 
for    his    blandness    and    natural  suavity  of    manner,  .  .  . 
yet  even  here  he  resisted  your  compliments  ;    and  if  you 
were  led  to  exclaim  that  you  had  found  a  man  who  could 
not  be  overcome    by  those  insidious  attacks  which  every 
one  else    admits,  and  hoped  that  he  would  at  least  tole- 
rate this    compliment   because  of   its  truth,  even  on  this 
ground  he  would  resist  your  flattery  ;    not  as  though  you 
had  been    awkward,   or  as  though  he  suspected  that  you 
were  jesting  with    him,  or  had  some  secret  end  in  view, 
but  simply  because  he  had  a  horror  of  every  form  of  ad- 
ulation."    We  can  easily  imagine  that  Gallio  was  Senecas 
favorite    brother,   and  we    are  not    surprised  to    fmd   that 
the    pliilosopher    dedicate;    to    him    his    three    books   on 
Anger,   and   his    charming   little    treatise    "On    a   Happy 

Life." 

Of  the  third  brother,  L.  Annaeus  iNIela,  we  have  fewer 
notices;  but,  from  wiiat  we  know,  we  should  conjec- 
ture that  his  character  no  less  than  his  reputation  war. 
inferior  to  that  of  his  brothers  ;  yet  he  seems  to  lia  e 
been  the  favorite  of  his  father,  who  distinctly  asse.t* 
that  h's  intellect  was  capable  of  every  excellence,  and 
superior  to  that  of  his  brothers.*  This,  however,  may 
have    been    because     Mela,     -longing    only   to    long   for 

*M.  Ann.  Senec.  Conirov.  ii.  Pri^f. 


ins  FAMILY  a:: D  EARLY  YEARS. 


23 


22 


.SEXECA. 


nothing,"  was  content  with  his  father's  rank,  and  devoted 
himself  wholly  to  the  study  of  eloquence.  Instead  of 
entering  into  public  Hfe,  he  deliberately  withdrew  himself 
from  all  civil  duties,  and  devoted  himself  to  tranquility 
and  ease.  Api)arently  he  preferred  to  be  a  farmer-general 
(piiblicajius)  and  no^a  consul.  His  chief  fame  rests  in 
the  fact  that  he  was  father  of  Lucan,  the  poet  of  the 
decadence  or  declining  literature  of  Rome.  The  only 
anecdote  abou.t  him  Vv'iiich  has  come  down  to  us  is  one 
that  sets  his  avarice  in  a  very  unfavourable  light.  When 
his  famous  son,  tliC  unhappy  poet,  had  forfeited  his  life, 
as  well  as  covered  himself  v/ith  infamy  by  denouncing 
his  own  motlier  Attila  in  the  conspiracy  of  Piso,  Mela, 
instead  of  being  overwhelmed  with  shame  and  agony, 
immediately  began  to  collect  with  indecent  avidity 
his  son's  debts,  as  though  to  show  Nero  that  he  felt 
no  great  sorrow  for  liis  bereavement.  But  this  was  not 
enough  for  Nero's  malice  ;  he  told  Mela  that  he  must  fol- 
low his  son,  and  Mela  was  forced  to  obey  the  order,  and 
to  die. 

Doubtles  Helvia,  if  she  survived  her  sons  and  grand- 
sons, must  have  bitterly  rued  the  day  when,  with  her  hus- 
band and  lier  young  children,  she  left  the  quiet  retreat 
of  a  life  in  Cordo\a.  P^ach  of  the  three  boys  grew  up 
to  a  man  of  genius,  and  each  of  them  grew  up  to  stain 
his  memory  with  deeds  that  had  been  better  left  undone, 
and  to  die  violent  deaths  by  their  own  hands  or  by 
a  tyrant's  will.  Mela  died  as  we  have  seen ;  his  son 
Lucan  and  his  brother  Seneca  were  driven  to  death  by 
the  cruel  orders  of  Nero.  Gallio,  after  stooping  to  panic- 
stricken  supplxatlons  for  his  preservation,  died  ulti- 
mately  by  suicide.     It  was  a  shameful  and  miserable  end 


% 

I 


for  them  all,  but  it  was  due  partly  to  their  own  errors, 
partly  to  the  hard  necessity  of  the  degraded  times  in  which 
they  lived. 


HIS  EDUCATIOX. 


as 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    EDUCATION    OF    SENACA. 

For  a  reason  which  I  have  already  indicated — I  mean 
the  habitual  reticence  of  the  ancient  writers  respecting 
the  period  of  their  boyhood— it  is  not  easy  to  form  a 
very  vivid  conception  of  the  kind  of  education  given  to  a 
Roman  boy  of  good  family  up  to  the  age  of  fifteen,  when 
he  laid  aside  ihe  golden  amulet  and  embroidered  toga  to 
assume  a  more  independent  mode  of  life. 

A  few  facts,  however,  we  can  gather  from  the  scattered 
allusions  of  the  poets  Horace,  Juvenal,  Martial,  and  Per- 
sius.  From  these  we  learn  that  the  school-masters  were 
for  the  most  part  underpaid  and  despised,*  while  at  the 
same  time  an  erudition  alike  minute  and  useless  was  rigidly 
demanded  of  them.  We  learn  also  that  they  were  exceed- 
ingly severe  in  the  infliction  of  corporeal  punishm.ent ;  Or- 
bilius,  the  schoolmaster  of  Horace,  appears  to  have  been  a 
perfect  Dr.  Busby,  and  the  poet  Martial  records  with  in- 
dignation the  barbarities  of  chastisement  which  he  daily 
witnessed. 

The  things  taught  were  chiefly  arithmetic,  grammar — both 


*  For   the   miseries  of  the  literary  class,  and  especially  of  schoolmas- 
ters, see  Juv,  Sat,  vii. 


Greek  and  Latin— reading,  and  repetition  of  the  chief  Latin 
poets.     There  was  also  a  good  deal  of  recitation  and  of 
theme-writing  on  all  kinds  of  trite  historical  subjects.     The 
arithmetic  reems  to  have  been  mainly  of  a  very  simple  and 
severely  practcal  kind,  especially  tlie  computation  of  in- 
terest and  compound  interest ;  and  the  philology  generally, 
both  grammer  and  criticism,  was  singularly  narrow,  unin- 
teresting, and  useless.     Of  what  conceivable  advantage  can 
it  have  been  to  any  human  being  to  know  the  name  of  the 
mother  of  Hecuba,  of  the  nurse  of  Anclnses,  of  the  step- 
mother of  Anchemolus,  the  number  of  years  Acestes  lived, 
and   how  many  ca.ks  of  wine  the    Sicilians    gave  to  the 
Phrygians?     Yet  these  were  the  dispicable  minutm  which 
every  schoolmaster  was  then  expected  to  have  at  his  fin- 
gers' ends,  and  every  boy-scholar  to  learn  at  the  pomt  of 
the  ferule— trash  which  was  only  fit  to  be   unlearned  the 

moment  it  was  known. 

For  this  kind  of  verbal  criticism  and  fantastic  archjeology 
Seneca  who  had  probably  gone  through  it  all,  expresses  a 
profound  and  very  rational  contempt.  In  a  rather  amusing 
passage*  he  contrasts  the  kind  of  use  which  would  be 
made  of  a  Virgil  lesson  by  a  philosopher  and  a  gram- 
marian.    Coming  to  the  lines, 

"  Each  happiest  day  for  mortals  speeds  tlie  first, 
Then  crowds  disease  behind  and  age  accurst," 

the  philosopher  will  point  out  why  and  in  what  sense  the 
early  days  of  life  are  the  best  days,  and  how  rapidly  the 
evil  days  succeed  them,  and  consequently  how  inlinitel/ 
imiio.tant  it  is  to  use  well  the  golden  dawn  of  our  being. 
But  the  verbal  critic  will  content  himself  with  the  remark 

*  Ep.  cviii. 


26 


SENECA. 


that  Virgil   always  uses  fugio  of  the  ilight  of  time,  a:id  al- 
ways joins   -old  age''  with    ^-disease/'  and    consequently 
thai  these  are  tags  to  be  remembered,  and  plagiarized  here- 
after in  the   pi.pil.V    "original  composition."     Simda:ly,  if 
the  book  in  hand  be   Cicero's  treati^.e   "  On  tlic  Common- 
wealtli,"  instead  of  entering  into  great  political  questions, 
our  grammarian  will  note  that  one  of  the  Roman  kings  had 
no  father  (to  speak  of),  and   another  no  mother;  t-at  dic- 
tators used  formerly  to  be  called   ••  masters  of  the  people;" 
that  Romulus  perished  during  an  eclipse ;  tliat  tlie  old  form 
of  reipsa  was  reapse,  and  of  se  ipse  was  scpsc;  that  tl.e  start- 
ing  point   in   the   circus   wliich   is    now    called   crcta^    or 
"chalk,"  used  to  be  called  caix,  or  career;  that  in  the  time 
of  Ennuis  opera  meant   not  only    '*  work,"  but  also  "  assist- 
ance," and  so  on,  and  so  on.     Is  this  true   education  ?  or 
rather,  should  our  great  aim  ever  be  to  translate  noble  pre- 
cepts into  daily  action?     "  Teach  me,"  he  says,  "  to  despise 
pleasure  and  glory ;  afteriuards  you  shall  teach  me  to  dis- 
entangle   difficulties,    to    distinguish    ambiguities,    to    see 
through    obscurities;    noiu  teach    me  what  is    necessary." 
Considering  the  condition  of  much  which  in  modern  times 
passes  under  the  name  of  '^  education,"  we  may  possibly 
find  that  the  hints  of  Seneca  are  not  yet  wholly  obsolete. 
What  kind  of  schoolmaster  tauirht  the  little  Seneca  w^hen 
under  the  care  of  tlie  slave  who  was  Q.2SiitA  pcdagogus.^  or  a 
'•boy-leader"  (whence  our  wox^ pedagogue) ^\\q  d^2^\y  went 
with  his  brothers  to  school  throudi  tr.e  streets  of  Rome,  we 
donot  know.     He  may  have  been  a  severe  Orbilius,  or  he 
may  have  been  one  of  those  noble-minded  tutors  whose 
ideal   portraiture  is  drawn  in  such  beautiful   colours  by  the 
learned  and  amiable  Quintllian.     Seneca  has  not  alluded 
to  any  one  who    taught  him   during  his   early  days.     The 


HIS  EDUCATION. 


27 


only  schoolfellow  whom  he  mentions  by  name  In  his  volu- 
minous writings  is  a  certain  Claranus,  a  deformed  boy, 
whom,  after  leaving  school,  Seneca  never  met  again  until 
they  were  both  old  men,  but  of  whom  he  speaks  with  great 
admiration.  In  spite  of  his  hump-back,  Claranus  appeared 
even  beautiful  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  knew  him  well,  be- 
cause his  virtue  and  good  sense  left  a  stronger  impression 
than   his   deformity,  and  ^^his  body  was   adorned  by  the  | 

beauty  of  his  soul." 

It  was  not  until  mere  school-lessons  were  finished  that  a 
boy  began  seriously  to  enter  upon  the  studies  of  eloquence 
and  philosophy,  which  therefore  furnish  some  analogy  to 
what  we  should  call  '^a  university  education."  GaUio  and 
Mela,  Seneca's  elder  and  younger  brothers,  devoted  them- 
selves heart  and  soul  to  the  theory  and  practice  of  eloquence ; 
Seneca  made  the  rarer  and  the  wiser  choice  in  giving  his\|^ 
entire  enthusiasm  to  the  study  of  philosophy. 

I  say  the  wiser  choice,  because  eloquence  is  not  a  thing 
for  which  one  can  give  a  receipt  as  one  might  give  a  receipt 
for  making  eau-de-Colog?ie,     Eloquence  is  the  nol^le,  the 
harmonious,  the  imssionate  expression  of  truths  profoundly 
realized,  or  of  emotions  intensely  felt.     It  is  a  flame  which 
cannot  'be  kindled  by  artificial  means.     Rhetoric  may  be 
taught  if  any  one  thinks  it  worth  learning  ;  but  eloquence  \% 
a  grft  as  innate  as  the  genius  from  which  it  springs.    ''  Cnjus 
vita  f Uigur,  ejus  verba  toniiruar-''\i  a  man's  life  be  light- 
nin-   his  words  will  be  thunders."     But  the  kind  of  oratory 
to  be  obtained  by  a  constant  practice  of  declamation  such 
as  that  which  occupied  the  schools  of  the  Rhetors  will  be  a 
ve^y  artificial  lightning  and  a  very  imitated  thunder-not 
t^e  artilkry  of  heaven,  but  th.e  Chinese  fire  and  rolled  blad- 
ders of  the  stage.     Nothing  could  be  more  false,  more  hoi- 


2S 


SENECA. 


low,  more  pernicious  than  the  perpetual  attempt  to  drill 
numerous  classes  of }  ouths  into  a  reproduction  of  the  mere 
manner  of  the  ancient  orators.  An  age  of  unlimited  decla- 
mation, an  age  of  incessant  talk,  is  a  hotbed  in  which  real 
depth  and  nobility  of  feeling  runs  miserably  to  seed.  Style 
is  never  worse  than  it  is  in  ages  which  employ  tliemselves 
in  teaching  little  else.  Such  teaching  produces  an  empti- 
ness of  thought  concealed  under  a  plethora  of  words.  This 
a'  e  of  countless  oratorical  masters  was  emphatically  the 
period  of  decadence  and  decay.  There  is  a  hollow  rmg 
about  it,  a  falsetto  tone  in  its  voice;  a  fatiguing  literary 
grimace  in  the  manner  of  its  authors.  Even  its  writers  of 
genius  were  injured  and  corrupted  by  the  prevailing  mode. 
They  can  say  nothing  simply;  they  are  always  in  contor- 
tions. Their  very  indignation  and  bitterness  of  heart,  genu- 
ine as  it  is,  assumes  a  theatrical  form  of  expression.*  They 
abound  in  unrealities:  their  whole  manner  is  defaced  with 
would-be  cleaverness,  with  antitheses,  epigrams,  paradoxes, 
forced  expressions,  figures  and  tricks  of  speech,  straining 
after  originality  and  profundity  when  they  are  merely  repeat- 
ing very  commonplace  remarks.  What  else  could  one  ex- 
pect in  an  age  of  salaried  declaimers,  educated  in  a  false 
atmosphere  of  superficial  talk,  for  ever  haranguing  and  per- 
orating about  great  passions  which  they  had  never  fe't,  and 
great  deeds  which  they  would  have  been  the  last  to  imitate  ? 
After  perpetually  immolating  the  Tarquins  and  the  Pisis- 
tratids  in  inflated  grandiloquence,  they  would  go  to  lick  the 
dust  off  a  tyrant's  shoes.  How  could  eloquence  surviv^e 
when  the  magnanimity  and  freedom  which  inspired  it  were 

*  "Juvenal,  eleve  dans  les  cris  de  Tecole 

Poussa  jusqu'a  V  excci  sa  mordante  hyperbole." — 

BOILEAU. 


HIS  EDUCATION, 


29 


dead,  and  when  the  men  and  boo^.cs  which  professed  to 
teach  it  were  filled  with  despicable  directions  about  the  ex- 
act position  in  which  the  orator  was  to  use  his  hands,  and 
as  to  whether  it  was  a  good  thing  or  not  for  him  to  slap  his 
forehead  and  disarrange  his  hair  ? 

The  philosophx  teaching  which  even  from  boyhood  exer- 
cised a  powerful  fasc'nation  on  the  eager  soul  of  Seiecawas 
at  least  something  better  than  this;  and  more  than  one  of 
his  philosophic  teachers  succeeded  in  winning  his  warm  af- 
fection, aid  in  moulding  the  principles  and  habits  of  his 
life.  Two  of  them  l^.e  mentions  with  special  regard,  name- 
ly Sotion  the  Tythagorean,  and  Attains  tlie  Stoic,  He  also 
heard  the  lectures  of  the  fluent  and  musical  Fablanus  Papi- 
rius,  but  seems  to  have  owed  less  to  him  than  to  his  other 

teachers. 

Sotion  had  embraced  the  views  of  Pythagoras  respectmg 
the  transmigration  of  souls,  a  doctrine  whch  made  the  eat- 
incr  of  animal  food  little  better  than  cannibalism  or  parri- 
cide.    But,  even  if  any  of  his  followers  rejected  this  view, 
Sotion  woukl  stiU  maintain  that  the  eating  of  animals,  if  not 
an  impiety,  was  at  least  a  cruelly  and  a  wa^te.   ''  What  liard- 
chip  does  my  advice  inflict  on  you?"  he  used  to  ask.     ''  I 
do  but  deprive  you  of  the  food  of  vultures  and  ho  is."     1  ne 
ardert  boy— for  at  this  time  he  could  not  have  been  more 
Uian  seventeen  years  old-was  so  convinced  by  the  e  con- 
siderations that  he  became  a  vegetarian.     At  first  the  a> 
sthiencefrom  meat  was  painful,  but  after  a  year  he  tells  us 
(  and  many  vegetarians  will  confirm  his  experience  )  it  was 
not  only  easy  but  delightful ;  and  he  used  to  believe,  though 
he  would  not  assert  it  as  a  iact,   tl^it  made  his  intellect 
more  keen  and  active.     He  only  ceased  to  be  a  vegetanai 
'in  obedience  to  the  remonstrance  of  his  unphilosophical 


so 


sExrx\ 


father,  wrio  would  have  easely  tolerate  1  what  lie  regarded 
as  a  meie  vagary  had  it  not  involved  the  danger  of  giving 
rise  to  a  cahimny.  For  about  this  time  Tiberius  banished 
from  Rome  all  the  followers  of  strange  and  foreign  relig- 
ions; and,  as  fasting  was  one  of  the  rites  practiced  in  some 
of  them,  Seneca's  father  thought  that  perhaps  his  son  might 
incur,  by  abstaining  from  meat,  the  horrible  suspicion  of 
being  a  Christian  or  a  Jew  ! 

Another  Pythagorean  philosopher  whom  he  admired  and 
whom  ]:e  quotes  was  Sextius,  from  whom  he  learnt  tlie  ad- 
mirable practice  of  da'ly  self-examination  : — '*  When  the 
day  was  over,  and  he  betook  hiinrelf  to  his  niglitly  rest,  he 
used  to  ask  himself,  What  evil  have  you  cured  to  day?  What 
vice  have  you  resisted?  In  what  particular  liave  you  im- 
proved ?  "  "I  too  adopt  tiris  custom,"  says  Seneca,  in  his 
book  on  Anger,  ^^  and  I  daily  plead  my  cause  before  myself, 
when  the  light  has  been  taken  away,  and  my  wife,  who  is 
now  aware  of  my  habit,  has  became  silent ;  I  carefully  con- 
sider in  my  heart  the  entire  day,  and  take  a  deliberate  esti- 
mate of  my  deeds  and  words." 

It  was  however  the  Stoic  Attains  who  seems  to  have  had 
the  main  share  in  the  instruction  of  Seneca  ;  and  his  teach- 
ing did  not  invohe  any  practical,  results  which  tlie  elder 
Seneca  considered  objectionable.  iHe  tells  us  how  he  used 
to  haunt  the  school  of  the  eloquent  philosopher,  being  the 
first  to  enter  and  the  last  to  leave  it.  "  When  I  heard  him 
declaiming,"  he  says,  "  against  vice,  and  error,  and  the  ills 
of  life,  I  often  felt  compassion  for  the  human  race,  and  be- 
lieved my  teacher  to  be  exalted  above  the  ordinary  stature  of 
mankind.  In  Stoic  fashion  he  used  to  call  himself  a  king;  but 
to  me  his  sovereignty  seemed  more  than  royal,  seeing  that 
it  was  in  his  power  to  pass  his  judgments  on   kings  them- 


ins  EDi'CATIOX. 


u 


selves.     When  he  began  to  set  forth  the  praises  of  poverty, 
and  to  show  how  iieavy  aul  superfluous  was  the  burden 
of   all  that   exceeded  liie   ordinary   wants  of  life,  I   often 
longed  to  leave   school  a  poor  man.     When  he  began  to 
reprehend  oju*  p'easures,  to  p  aise  a  chaste  body,  a  mod- 
erate tab'C,   and  a  mind  pu-e  not  from  all  unlawful  but 
even  from  all  suj^erfluous  pleasures,  it  was  my  delight  to 
set  strict  limits  to  all  voracity  an.d  glu.tony.     And  the>e 
precepts,  my   Luc"lius,  have  left  some   permanent  results; 
for  I  embraced  tliem  \v'th  impetuous   eagerncs,  and  aUer- 
wards,  when  I  entered  upon  a  political  career,  I  reta'ned  a 
few  of  my  good   beginnings.      In  consequence  of  tiiem,  I 
have  all  my  life  long  renounced  eating  oysters  and  mush- 
rooms, which  do  not  sat'sfy  h  niger  but  only  sliarpen  appe- 
tite ;  for  this  reason  I  habitually  abstain  from  perfumes,  be- 
cause the  sweete-t  perfume  for  the  body  is  none  at  all :    for 
this  reason   I  do  without  wines   and;  baths.  .  Otlier  habits 
which  I  once   abandoned  have  con^.e  back  to  me,  but  m 
such  a  way  that  I   merely  substitute  moderation  for  absti- 
nence, which  perhaps  is  a  still  more  difficult  task;    since 
there  are  some  things  which  it  is  easier  for  tlie  mind  to  cut 
away  altogether    tlian   to  enjoy  in    moderation.       Attains 
used  to  recommend  a  hard  couch  in  which  tlie  body  could 
not  sink  ;    and,  even  in  my  old  age,  I   use  one  of  such  a 
kind  that  it  leaves  no  impress  of  the  sleeper.     I  have  told 
you  these  anecdotes  to  prove  to  you  wviat  eager  impulses 
our  little  scholars  would  have  to  aU  t'r.at  is  good,  if  any  one 
were  to   exhort   them   and   urge  them   on.      But  the   harm 
springs  pa^tly  from  tlie  fault  of  preceptors,  who  teach   us 
how  to  argue,  not  how  to  //:r;  a  id  partly  from  tlie  fault  of 
pupils,  who  brmg  to  their  teacher   a  purpose  of  training 


32 


SENECA. 


their  intellect  and  not  their  souls.     Thus  it  is  tnat  philosa 
phy  has  been  degraded  into  ir.ere  philology." 

In  another  lively  passage,  Seneca  brings  vividly  before 
us  a  picture  of  the  various   scholars  assembled  in  a  school 
of  the  philosophers.     After  ob  e"ving  that  philosopliy  exer- 
cises some  influence  even  over  those  who  do  not  go  deeply 
in   it,  just   as  people  sitting  in    a  shop   of  perfumes  carry 
away  with  tliem  some  of  the  odour,  he  adds,   ''Do  we  not, 
however,  know  some  who  have  been   among  the  aud'ence 
of  a  philosopher  for  many  years,  and   have  been  even  en- 
tirely uncoloiired  by  his  teaching  ?     Of  course  I  do,  even 
most   persistent   and   continuous   hearers ;    whom  I  do  not 
call    pupils,    but    mere    passing    auditors    of  philosophers. 
Some   come  to   hear,  not  to   learn,  just  as  we   are   brought 
into  a  th.eatre  for  pleasure's  sake,  to   delight  our  ears  with 
language,  or  with  tlie  voice,  or  with  plays.     You  will  ob- 
serve a  large  portion  of  the  audience  to  whom  the  philoso- 
pher's school  is  a  mere   haunt  of  their  leisure.     Their  ob- 
ject is   not  to  lay  aside  any  vices   there,  or  to   accept  any 
law  in  accordance  with  which  they  may  conform  their  life, 
but    that  they  may   enjoy  a  mere    tickling  of  their   cars. 
Some,  however,  even  come  with    tablets    in  their    hands, 
to  catch  up  not  things  but  words.      Some  with  easfer  coun- 
tenances  and  spirits  are  kindled  by  magnificent  utterances, 
and    these  are  charmed    by  the  beauty  of   the  thoughts, 
not    by    the    sound   of    empty   words;    but    the   impres- 
sion is  not  lasting.     Few  only  have  attained   the  i)oweT 
of  carrying  home  with  them  the  frame  of  mind  into  which 
they  had  been  elevated." 

It  was  to  this  small  latter  class  that  Seneca  belonged 
He  became  a  Stoic  from  very  early  yea;s.  The  Stol-^ 
philosophers^  undoubtedly  the  noblest  and  purest  of  ancient 


ins  EorcATiox. 


33 


sects,    received  their  name  from  the  fact  that  their  founder 
Zeno  had  lectured  in  tlie  Painted  Porch  or  Stoa  Poecile  of 
Athens.      Tlie    influence   of  these    austere   and   eloquent 
masters,  teaching  high  lessons  of  morality  and  continence, 
and  inspiring  their  young  audience  with  the  glow  of  tl^.eir 
own  enthusiasm  for  virtue,  must  have  been  invaluable  in 
that  effete  and  drunken  age.     Their  doctrines  were  pushed 
to  yet  more  extravagant  lengths  by  the  Cynics,  wlio  were 
so  called  from   a   Greek  word  meaning   ''  dog,"  from  what 
appeared  to   the  ancients  to  be  the  dog-like  brutaliiy  of 
their  manners.     Juvenal  scornfully  remarks,  that  the  Stoics 
only   differed   from  the   Cynics   "by  a   tunic,"    which    the 
Sto'cs  wore   and   the   Cynics   discarded.      Seneca  never  in- 
deed   adopted    the    practices  of    C)nicism,    but    he    often 
speaks    admiringly  of   the    arch-Cynic    Diogenes,    and    re- 
peatedly refers  to  the  Cynic  Demetrius,  as  a  man  deserving 
of  the  very  highest  esteem.     "  I  take  with  me  everywhere," 
writes  he  to  Lucilius,   ''that  best  of  men,  Demetrius;  and, 
leaving   those  who  wear   purple   robes,  I  talk  with  him  who 
is  half  naked.      Why  should  I   not   admire   him  ?     I   have 
seen  that  he  has  no  want.     Any  one  may  despise  all  things,  / 
but  no   one  avi  possess   all  things.     The  shortest  road  to 
riches  lies  through  contempt  of  riches.      But  our  Demetrius 
lives  not  as  though  he  despised  all  things,  but  as  though  he 
simply  suffered  others  to  possess  them." 

These  habits  and  sentiments  throw  considerable  light  on 
Seneca's  character.  They  show  that  even  from  his  earliest 
days  he  was  capable  of  adopting  self-denial  as  a  principle. 
and  that  to  his  latest  days  he  retained  many  private  habit ; 
of  a  simple  and  honourable  character,  even  when  the  exi- 
gencies of  public  life  had  compelled  him  to  modify  others. 
Although  he   abandoned  an   unusual  abstinence  out  of  re- 


34 


SENECA, 


spect  for  his  father,  we  have  positive  evidence  that  he  re- 
sumed in    his  old    age  the  spare    practices  which    in    his 
enthusiastic  youth  he  had  caught  from  the  lessons  of  high- 
minded  teachers.     These  facts  are  surely  sufficient  to  refute 
at  any  rate  those  gross  charges  against  the  private  character 
of  Seneca,  venomously  retailed  by  a  jealous  Greekling  hke 
Dio  Cassius,  which  do  not  rest  on  a  tittle  of  evidence,  and 
seem  to  be  due  to  a  mere  spirit  of  envy  and   calumny.      I 
shall  not  again  allude  to  these  scandals  because  I  utterly 
disbelieve   them.     A  man  who  in  his   ''  History  "   could,  as 
Dio  Cassius  has  done,  put  into  the  month  of  a   Roman 
senator  such  insane  falsehoods  as  he  has  pretended  that 
Fufius  Calenus  uttered  in  full  senate  against  Cicero,  was 
evidently  actuated  by  a  spirit  which  disentitles  his  state- 
ments to  -Buy  credence.     Seneca  was  an  inconsistent  phil- 
osopher both  in  theory  and  in  practice  ;    be  fell  beyond  all 
question  into  serious  errors,  which  deeply  compromise  his 
character  ;  but,  so  far  from  being  a  dissipated  or  luxurious 
man,  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  in  the  very  midst 
of  wealth  and  splendour,  and  all  the  temptations  which  they 
involve,  he  retained  alike  the  simpHcity  of  his  habits  and 
the  rectitude  of  his  mind.     Whatever  may  have  been  the 
almost  fabulous  value  of  his  five  hundred  tables  of  cedar 
and  ivory,  they  were  rarely  spread  with  any  more  sump- 
tuous   entertainment    than    water,    vegetables,    and    fruit. 
Whatever  may  have  been  the  amusements  common  among 
his  wealthy  and    noble   contemporaries,   we  know  that  he 
found  his  highest  enjoyment  in   the   innocent  pleasures  of 
his  garden,  and  took  some  of  his  exercise  by  running  races 
there  with  a  little  slave. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  STATE  OF  ROMAN  SOCIETY. 

We  have   gleaned  from  Seneca's  own  writings  what  facts 
we  could  respecting  his  early  education.     But  m  the  life  of 
every  man  there  are  influences  of  a  far  more  real  and  pene- 
trating character  than  those  which  come  through  the  medi- 
um of  schools  or  teachers.     The  spirit  of  the  age;  the  gen- 
eral tone  of  thought,  the  prevalent  habits  of  social   inter- 
course   the  pohtical  tendencies  which  were  mouldmg  the 
destin;  of  the  nation,-these  must  1-- J^^^'. -^^/^X 
bly  indeed  but  more  powerfully,  on  the  mind  of  Seneca 
than  even  the  lectures  of  Sotion  and  of  Attains.     And  i 
we  have  had  reason  to  fear  that  there  was  much  winch  was 
hollow  in  the  fashionable  education,  we  shall  see  tha  the 
general  aspect  of  the  society  by  which  our  young  philoso- 
pher was  surrounded  from  the  cradle  was  yet  more  injun-  ^ 

^"^The'Sni  is  deepest  just  before  the  dawn  and  never 
did  a  grosser  darkness  or  a  thicker  mist  of  moral  pestilence 
brood'over  the  surface  of  Pagan  society  than  at  the  per^o 
when  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  arose  with  healing  in  H. 
winc^s  There  have  been  many  ages  when  the  dense  gk^om 
of  a^'heartless  immorality  seemed  to  settle  down  with  un- 
usual weight ;  there  have  been  many  places  where,  under 


.6 


SENECA, 


STA  TE  OF  ROMAS  SOCIETY. 


37 


the  gaslight  of  an  artificial  system,  vxe  lias  reemed  to  ac- 
quire an  unusual  a.icLicty  ;  but  never  probably  was  there 
any  age  or  any  place  w'lere  the  worst  forms  of  wic'cedness 
'vvere  practiced  with  a  nmie  unblushing  effrontery  timn  in 
the  city  of  Rome  under  the  government  of  the  Ceesars.  A 
deeply-seated  corruption  seemed  to  have  fastened  upon  the 
very  vitals  of  the  national  existence.  It  is  surely  a  lesson 
of  deep  moral  significance  that  just  as  they  became  most 
polished  in  their  luxury  they  became  most  vile  in  their 
manner  of  life.  Horace  had  already  bewailed  that  '"  the 
age  of  our  fathers,  worse  than  that  of  our  grandsires,  has 
produced  us  who  are  yet  baser,  and  who  are  doomed  to 
give  birth  to  a  still  more  degraded  offspring."  But  fifty 
years  later  it  seemed  to  Juvenal  that  in  his  times  the  very 
final  goal  of  iniquity  had  been  attained,  and  he  exclaims,  in 
a  burst  of  despair,  that  "  posterity  will  add  nothing  to  our 
immorality ;  our  descendents  can  but  do  and  desire  the 
same  crimes  as  ourselves."  He  who  would  see  but  for  a 
moment  and  afar  off  to  what  the  Gentile  world  had  sunk, 
at  the  very  period  when  Christianity  began  to  spread,  may 
form  some  faint  and  shuddering  conception  from  the  pic- 
ture of  it  drawn  in  the  Epistle  to  the  Romans. 

We  ought  to  realize  this  fact  if  we  would  judge  of  Seneca 
aright.  Let  us  then  glance  at  the  condition  of  the  society 
in  the  midst  of  which  he  lived.  Happily  we  can  but  glance 
at  it.  The  worst  cannot  be  told.  Crimes  may  be  spoken 
of;  but  things  monstrous  and  inhuman  should  for  ever  be 
concealed.  We  can  but  stand  at  the  cavern's  mouth,  and 
cast  a  single  ray  of  light  into  its  dark  depths.  Were  we 
to  enter,  our  lamp  would  be  quenched  by  the  foul  things 
which  would  cluster  round  it. 

In  the  age  of  Augustus  began  that  ''  long  slow  agony,"  that 


I 


melancholy  process  of  a  society  gradually  going  to  pieces 
under  the  dissolving  influence  of  its  own  vices  which  lasted 
almost  without  interruption  till  nothing  was  left  for  Rome 
except  the  fire  and  sword  of  barbaric  invasions.  She  saw 
not  only  her  glories  but  also  her  virtues  ''  star  by  star  ex- 
pire." The  old  heroism,  the  old  beliefs,  the  old  manliness 
and  simplicity,  were  dead  and  gone ;  they  had  been  suc- 
ceeded by  prostration  and  superstition  by  luxury  and  lust. 

•  *  There  is  the  moral  of  all  human  tales, 
'Tis  but  the  same  rehearsal  of  the  past, 
First  freedom,  and  then  glory  ;  when  that  fails, 
Wealth,  vice,  corruption, — barbarism  at  last  : 
And  history,  with  all  her  volumes  vast. 
Hath  but  one  page  ;  'tis  better  written  here 
Where  gorgeous  tyranny  hath  thus  amassed 
All  treasures,  all  delights,  that  eye  or  ear, 
Heart,  soul  could  seek,  tongue  ask," 

The  mere  elements  of  society  at  Rome  during  this  period 
were  very  unpromising.  It  was  a  mixture  of  extremes. 
There  was  no  middle  class.  At  the  head  of  it  was  an  em- 
peror, often  deified  in  his  lifetime,  and  separated  from  even 
the  noblest  of  the  senators  by  a  distance  of  immeasurable 
superiority.  He,  was,  in  the  startling  language  of  Gibbon, 
at  once  ''a  priest,  an  atheist,  and  a  god."*  Surrounding 
his  person  and  forming  his  court  were  usually  those  of  the 

«  '  *  To  the  sound 

Of  fifes  and  drums  they  danced,  or  in  the  shade 
Sung  Ccesar  gi'cat  and  terrible  in  war, 
Immortal  Cxsar!   *  Lo,  a  god  !  a  god  ! 
He  cleaves  the  yielding  skies  !'  Coesar  meanwhile 
Gathers  the  ocean  pebbles,  or  the  gnat 
Enraged  pursues  ;  or  at  his  lonely  meal 


3S 


SENECA. 


ST  A  TE  OF  ROMAN  SOCIETY, 


39 


nobility  who  were  the  most  absolutely  degraded  by  their 
vices  their  flatteries,  or  their  abject  subservience.     But  even 
these  men  were  not  commonly  the  repositories    of  political 
power.     The    people    of  the   greatest  influence    were  the 
freedmen    of  the   emperors — men   who  had    been    slaves, 
Egyptians  and  Bithynians   who  had  come   to   Rome   with 
bored  ears  and  with  chalk  on  their  naked  feet  to  show  that 
they  were  for  sale,  or  who  had  bawled  "  sea-urchins  all  alive" 
in  the  Velabrum  or  the  Saburra — who  had  acquired  enor- 
mous wealth   by  means   often   the  most   unscrupulous  and 
the  most  degraded,  and  whose  insolence  and  baseness  had 
kept   pace  with   their  rise  to  power.     Such  a  man  was  the 
FeUx  before  whom  St.   Paul  was  tried,  and  such  was  his 
brother  Pallas,*  whose  golden  statue  might  have  been  seen 
among  the  household  gods  of  the  senator,   afterwards  the 
emperor,  Vitellius.     Another  of  them   might    often  have 
been  observed  parading  the  streets  between  two  consuls. 
Imagine  an  Edward  II.    endowed  with   absolute  and  un- 
questioned   powers    of  tyranny, — imagine    some    pestilent 
Piers   Gaveston,  or  Hugh   de  le  Spenser  exercising  over 
nobles  and  people  a  hideous  despotism  of  the  back  stairs, 
— and  you  have  some  faint  picture  of  the  government  of 
Rome  under  some  of  the  twelve  Coesars.     What  the  barber 


Starves  a  wide  province  ;  tastes,  dislikes,  and  flings 
To  dogs  and  sycophants.      *A  god  !  a  god  !' 
The  flowery  shades  and  shrines  obscene  return. " 

Dyer,  Ruins  of  Rome. 

*  The  pride  of  this  man  was  such  that  he  never  deigned  to  speak  a 
word  in  the  presence  of  his  own  slaves,  but  only  made  known  his  wishes 
by  signs  ! — TacITUS. 


» 


Olivier  le  Diable  was  under  Louis  XL,  what  Mesdames  du 
Barri  and  Pompadour  were  under  Louis  XV.,  what  the 
infamous  Earl  of  Somerset  was  under  James  I.,  what 
George  Villiers  became  under  Charles  L,  will  furnish  us  with 
a  faint  analogy  of  the  far  more  exaggerated  and  detestable 
position  held  by  the  freedman  Glabrio  under  Domitian,  by 
the  actor  TigeUinus  under  Nero,  by  Pallus  and  Narcissus 
under  Claudius,  by  the  obscure  knight  Sejanus  under  the 
iron  tyranny  of  the  gloomy  Tiberius. 

L  It  was  an  age  of  the  most  enormous  wealth  existing 
side  by  side  with  the  most  abject  poverty.     Around  the 
splendid  palaces  wandered  hundreds  of  mendicants,  who 
made  of  their  mendicity  a  horrible  trade,  and  even  went  so 
far  as  to  steal  or  mutilate  infants  in  order  to  move  com- 
passion  by  their   hideous   maladies.     This   class  was   in- 
creased by  the  exposure  of  children,  and  by  that  over- 
grown accumulation  of  landed  property  which  drove  the 
poor  from  their  native  fields.     It  was  increased  also  by  the 
ambitious  attempt  of  people  whose  means  were  moderate 
to   imitate    tlie    enormous    display  of  the   numerous   mil- 
honaires.     The  great   Roman  conquests  in  the   East,  the 
plunder  of  the  ancient  kingdoms  of  Antioclnis,  of  Attalus, 
of  Mithridates,  had  caused  a  turbid  stream  of  wealth  to 
flow  into  the  sober  current  of  Roman  hfe.     One  reads  witli 
silent   astonishment   of  the   sums   expended    by   wealthy 
Romans  on  their  magnificence  or  their  pleasures.     And  as 
commerce  was  considered  derogatory  to  rank  and  position, 
and  was  therefore  pursued  by  men  who  had  no  diaracter 
to  lose,  these  overgrown  fortunes  were  often  acquired  by 
wretches  of  the  meanest  stamp-by  slaves  brought  from 
over  the  sea,  who  had  to  conceal  the  holes  bored  in  their 


40 


SENECA 


ears  ;*  or  even  by  malefactors  who  had  to  obliterate,  by 
artiiicial  means,  the  three  lettersf  which  had  been  branded 
by  the  executioner  on  their  foreheads.  But  many  of  the 
richest  men  in  Rome,  who  had  not  sprung  from  this  convict 
origin,  were  fully  as  well  deserving  of  the  same  disgraceful 
stigma.  Their  houses  were  built,  their  coffers  were  re- 
plenished,  from  the  drained  resources  of  exhausted  prov- 
incials. Every  young  man  of  active  ambition  or  noble 
birth,  whose  resources  had  been  impoverished  by  de- 
bauchery and  extravagance,  had  but  to  borrow  fresh  sums 
in  order  to  give  magnificent  gladiatorial  shows,  and  then,  if 
he  could  once  obtain  an  eedileship,  and  mount  to  the 
higher  offices  of  the  State,  he  would  in  time  become  the 
procurator  or  jjroconsul  of  a  province,  which  he  might  pil- 
lage almost  at  his  will.  Enter  the  house  of  a  Felix  or  a 
Verres.  Those  splendid  pillars  of  mottled  green  marble 
were  dug  by  tlie  forced  labour  of  Phrygians  from  the  quar- 
of  Synnada ;  that  embossed  silver,  those  murrhine  vases, 
those  jev/eled  cups,  those  masterpieces  of  antique  sculp- 
ture, have  all  been  torn  from  the  homes  or  the  temples  of 
Sicily  or  Greece.  Countries  were  pilaged  and  nations 
crushed  that  an  Apicius  might  dissolve  pearlsj  in  the  wine 
he  drank,  or  that  Lollia  Paulina  might  gleam  in  a  second-best 
dress  of  emeralds  and  pearls  which  had  cost  40,000,000 
sesterces,  or  more  than  3 2,000/. § 

♦This  was  a  common  ancient  practice;  the  very  words  *' thrall," 
'*thralldom,"  are  etymologically  connecte  I  with  the  roots  ''thrill," 
'* trill,"   *' drill,"  (Compare  Exod.  xxi.  6;  Deut.  xv.  17;  Plut.  Cic,  26; 

and  Juv.  S(U,  i.  104.) 

\Fur,  ** thief."     CSee  Martial,  ii.  29.) 

X  ** Dissolved  pearls,  Apicius'  diet  'gainst  the  epilepsy."— Ben  Jon- 

SON. 

S  Pliny  actually  saw  her  thus  arrayed.      (Nat.  Hist.  ix.  3$,  36.; 


STATE  or  ROMAX  SOCIETY. 


Each  of  these  ''gorgeous  criminals"  Hved  in  the  midst 
of  an   humble    crowd  of   flatterers,  parasites,  cUents,  de- 
pendents,  and  slaves.      Among  the  throng    that  at  early 
morning  jostled  each  other  ia  the  marble  atrium  were  to 
be  found  a  motley  and  hetrogeneous  set  of  men.     Slaves 
of  every    age    and   nation — Germans,    Egyptians,    Gauls, 
Goths,  Syrians,  Britons,  Moors,  pampered  and  consequent- 
ial freedmen,  impudent  confidential  servants,  greedy  buf- 
foons, who  lived   by  making  bad  jokes  at  other  people's 
tables  ;  Dacian  gladiators,  with  whom  fighting  was  a  trade; 
philosophers,  whose  chief  claim  to  reputation  was  the  length 
of  their  beards ;  supple  Greeklings  of  the  Tartuffe  species, 
ready  to  flatter  and  lie  with  consummate  skill,  and  spread- 
ing their  vile  character  like  a  pollution  wherever  the  went : 
and   among  all  these  a  number  of  poor  but  honest  clients, 
forced  quietly  to   put  up  with  a  thousand  forms  of  con- 
tumely*  and  insult,  and  living  in  discontented  idleness  on 
the  sportula  or  daily  largesse  which  was  administered  by 
the  grudging  liberality  of  their  haughty  patrons.     The  stout 
old  Roman  burgher  had  well-nigh  disappeared;  the  sturdy 
independence,    the    manly   self-reliance    of    an    industrial 
population  were  all  but  unknown.     The  insolent  loungers 
who    bawled  -in   the  Forum  were   often  mere   stepsons  of 
Italy,  who  had  been  dragged  thither  in  chains,— the  dregs 
of  all  nations,  which  had  flowed  into  Rome  as  into  a  com- 
mon   sewer,!  bringing  with  them  no  heritage    except  the 

*  Few  of  the  many  sad  pictures  in  the  Satires  of  Juvenal  are  more 
pitiable  than  that  of 'the  wretched  "Quirites"  struggling  at  their  pa- 
trons' doors  for  the  pittance  which  formed  their  daily  dole.    (Sat  i.  lOl.) 

t  See  Juv.  Sat.  iii.  62.  Scipio,  on  being  interrupted  by  the  mob  in 
the  Forum,  exclaimed,  — *' Silence,  ye  stepsons  of  Italy!  What  !  shall 
I  fear  these  fellows  now  they  are  free,  whom  I  myself  have  brought  in 
chains  to  Rome?     (See  Cic.  De  Oral.  ii.  61.; 


42 


SENECA. 


specialty  of  their  national  vices.  Their  two  wants  were 
bread  and  the  shows  of  the  circus;  so  long  as  the  sportula 
of  their  patron,  the  occasional  donative  of  an  emperor,  and 
the  ambition  of  political  candidates  supplied  these  wants, 
they  lived  in  contented  abasement,  anxious  neither  for  lib- 
erty nor  for  power. 

II.   It  was  an  age  at  once  of  atheism  and  superstition. 
Strange  to  say,  the  two  things  usually  go  together.     Just  as 
Philippe  Egalite,  Duke  of  Orleans,  disbelieved  in  God,  and 
yet  tried  to  conjecture   his   fate  from   the   inspection    of 
coffee-grounds  at  the  bottom  of  a  cup,— just  as  Louis  XI. 
shrank  from  no  perjury  and  no  crime,  and  yet  retained  a 
profound   reverence   for   a  little  leaden  image   which   he 
carried  in  his  cap,— so  the  Romans   under  the    Empire 
sneered   at  all  the  whole   crowd  of   gods  and    goddesses 
whom  their  fathers  had  worshipped,  but  gave  an  implicit 
credence  to  sorcerers,  astrologers,  spirit-rappers,  exorcists, 
and  every  species  of  imposter  and  quack.     The  ceremonies 
of  religion  were  performed  with  ritualistic  splendour,  but 
all  behef  in  religion  was  dead  and  gone.     "  That  there  are 
such  things  as  ghosts  and  subterranean  realms  not  even 
boys  believe,"   says  Juvenal,   "  except  those  who  are  still 
too  young  to  pay  a  farthing  for  a  bath."*     Nothing  can  ex- 
ceed the   cool  impertinence  with  which  the  poet   Martial 
prefers  the  favour  of  Domitian  to  that  of  the  great  Jupiter 
of  the  Capitol.     Seneca,  in  his  lost  book  "  Against  Super- 
stitions,"! openly  sneered  at  the  old  mythological  legends 
of  gods'  married  and  gods  unmarried,  and  at  the  gods  Panic 

*Juv.  Sat.  ii.  149.      Cf.    Sen.    Ep.    xxiv.      "Nemo  tarn  puer  est  iit 
Cerberum  timeat,  ct  tenebras,"  f;r. 


\  Fragm.  xxxiv. 


STA  TE  OF  ROMAX  SOCIETY. 


43 


and  Paleness,  and  at  Cloacina,  the  goddess  of  sewers,  and 
at  other  deities  whose  cruelty  and  license  would  have  been 
infamous  even  in  mankind.     And  yet  the  priests,  and  Salii, 
and  Flamens,  and  Augurs  continued  to  fulfil  their  solemn 
functions,    and    the    highest   title  of  the  Emperor   himself 
was  that  of  Po7itifex  Maximus,  or  Chief  Priest,  which  he 
claimed  as  the  recognized  head  of  the  national  religion. 
"  The  common  worship  was  regarded,"  says  Gibbon,  "  by 
the  people  as  equally  true,  by  the  philosophers  as  equally 
false,  and  bv  the  magistrates  as  equally  useful."     And  this 
famous  remark  is  little  more  than  a  translation  from  Seneca, 
who  after  exposing  the  futility  of  the  popular  beliefs,  adds: 
"  And  yet  the  wise  man  will  observe  them  all,  not  as  pleas- 
ing to  the  gods,  but  as  commanded  by  the  laws.     We  shall 
so  2.Aore  all  thai  ignoble  crowd  of  gods  ^^h:^ch  long  supersti- 
tion has  heaped  together  in  a  long  period  of  years,  as  to 
remember  that  their  worship  has  more  to  do  with  custom 
than  with  reality."     "  Because  he  was  an  illustrious  senator 
of  the   Roman  people,"  observes  St.   Augustine,  who  has 
preserved  for  us  this  fragment,  "he  worshipped  what  he 
blamed,  he  did  what  he  refuted,  he  adored  that  with  which 
he    found   fault."      Could    anything  be    more   hollow  or 
heartless  than  this  ?     Is  there  anything  which  is  more  cer- 
tain to  sap  the  very  foundations  of  morality  than  the  public 
maintenance  of  a  creed  which  has  long  ceased  to  command 
the    assent,  and   even   the   respect  of  its   -cognized   de- 
fenders ?     Seneca,  indeed,  and  a  few  enhghtened  philoso- 
phers,   might    have    taken    refuge   from   the    supersti  K,ns 
which  they  abandoned  in  a  truer  and  purer  form  o     -^^^ 
"Accordingly,"    says    Lactantius,    one    of    the    Christian 
Fathers,  "  he  has  said  many  things  like  ourselves  concern- 


44 


SEA'ECA. 


STATE  OF  ROMAX  SOCIETW 


45 


ing  God."*  He  utters  what  Tertullian  finely  calls  ''the 
testimony  of  a  mind  naturally  Christian."  But,  mean- 
while, what  became  of  the  common  multitude  ?  They  too, 
like  their  superiors,  learnt  to  disbelieve  or  to  question  the 
power  of  the  ancient  deities ;  but,  as  the  mind  absolutely 
requires  some  religion  on  which  to  rest,  they  gave  their  real 
devotion  to  all  kinds  of  strange  and  foreign  deities, — to  Isis 
and  Osiris,  and  the  dog  Anubus,  to  Chaldaean  magicians,  to 
Jewish  exorcisers,  to  Greek  quacks,  and  to  the  wretched 
vagabond  priests  of  Cybele,  who  infested  all  the  streets  with 
their  Oriental  dances  and  tinkling  tambourines.  The  visi- 
tor to  the  ruins  of  Pompeii  may  still  see  in  her  temple  the 
statue  of  Isis,  through  whose  open  lips  the  gaping  worship- 
pers heard  the  murmured  answers  they  came  to  seek.  No 
doubt  they  believed  as  firmly  that  the  image  spoke,  as  our 
forefathers  believed  that  their  miraculous  Madonnas  nodded 
and  winked.  But  time  has  exposed  the  cheat.  By  the 
ruined  shrine  the  worshipj)er  may  now  see  the  secret  steps 
by  which  the  priest  got  to  the  back  of  the  statue,  and  the 
pipe  entering  the  back  of  its  head  through  which  he  whis- 
pered the  answers  of  the  oracle. 

III.  It  was  an  age  of  boundless  luxury,— an  age  in  which 
women  recklessly  vied  with  one  another  in  the  race  of 
splendour  and  extravagance,  and  in  which  men  plunged 
headlong,  without  a  single  scruple  of  conscience,  and  with 
every  possible  resource  at  their  command,  into  the  pursuit 
of  pleasure.  There  was  no  form  of  luxury,  there  was  no 
lefinement  of  vice  invented  by  any  foreign  nation,  which 
had  not  been  eagerly  adopted  by  the  Roman  patricians. 
"The  softness  of  Sybaris,  the  manners  of  Rhodes  and  An- 
tioch,  and  of  perfumed,  drunken,  flower-crowned  Miletus," 

♦  Lactaiitius,  Divin.  Inst.  i.  4. 


were  all  to  be  found  at  Rome.     There  was  no  more  of  the 
ancient  Roman  severity  and  dignity  and  self-respect.     The 
descendants  of  ^milius  and  Gracchus — even  generals  and 
consuls    and    praetors — mixed    familiarly    with    the   lowest 
canaille  of  Rome  in  their  vilest  and  most  squalid  purUeus 
of  shameless  vice.     They  fought  as  amateur  gladiators  in 
the  arena.     They  drove  as  competing  charioteers  on  the 
race-course.      They  even  condescended  to  appear  as  actors 
on  the  stage.     They  devoted  themselves  with  such  frantic 
eagerness  to  the  excitement  of  gambling,  that  we  read  of 
their  staking  hundreds  of  pounds  on  a  single  throw  of  the 
dice,  when  they  could  not  even  restore  the  pawned  tunics 
to  their  shivering  slaves.      Under  the  cold  marble  statues, 
or  amid  the  waxen  likenesses  of  their  famous  stately  ances- 
tors, they  turned  night  into  day  with  long  and  foolish  orgies, 
and  exhausted  land  and  sea  with  the  demands  of  their  glut- 
tony.    "  Woe  to  that  city,"  says  an  ancient  proverb,  "  in 
which  a  fish  costs  more  than  an  ox ;"  and  this  exactly  de- 
scribes the  state  of  Rome.     A  banquet  would  sometimes 
cost  the  price  of  an  estate ;  shell-fish  were  brought  from  re- 
mote and  unknown  shores,  birds  from  Parthia  and  the  banks 
of  the  Phasis ;  single  dishes  were  made  of  the  brains  of  the 
peacocks  and  the  tongues  of  nightingales  and  flamingoes. 
Apicius,  after  squandering  nearly  a  million  of  money  in  the 
pleasures  of  the  table,  committed  suicide,  Seneca  tells  us, 
because  he  found  that  he  had  only  80,000/.  left.     Cowle/ 
upeaks  of — 

**  Vitellius'  table,  which  did  hold 
As  manv  creatures  as  the  ark  of  old.'' 

''They    cat,"   said   Seneca,    ^- and   then   they  vomit;    the> 


46 


SENECA. 


vomit,  and  then  they  eat."  But  even  in  this  matter  we 
cannot  tell  anything  like  the  worst  facts  about — 

**  Their  sumptuous  gluttonies  and  gorgeous  feasts 
On  citron  tables  and  Atlantic  stone, 
Their  wines  of  Setia,  Cales,  and  Falerne, 
Chios,  and  Crete,  and  how  they  quaff  in  gold, 
Crystal,  and  myrrhine  cups,  embossed  with  gems 
And  studs  of  pearl.  "* 

Still  less  can  we  pretend  to  describe  the  unblushing  and 
unutterable  degradation  of  this  period  as  it  is  revealed  to  us 
by  the  poets  and  the  satirists.  "•  All  things,"  says  Seneca, 
"  are  full  of  iniquity  and  vice ;  more  crime  is  committed 
than  can  be  remedied  by  restraint.  We  struggle  in  a  huge 
contest  of  criminality :  daily  the  passion  for  sin  is  greater, 
the  shame  in  committing  it  is  less.  .  .  .  Wickedness  is  no 
longer  committed  in  secret :  it  flaunts  before  our  eyes,  and 

**  The  citron  board,  the  bowl  embossed  with  gems, 
•         .         •         .         whate'er  is  known 
Of  rarest  acquisition  ;  Tyrian  garbs, 
Neptunian  Albion's  high  testaceous  food. 
And  flavoured  Chian  wines,  with  incense  fumed. 
To  slake  patrician  thirst  :  for  these  their  rights 
In  the  vile  atreets  they  prostitute  for  sale. 
Their  ancient  rights,  their  dignities,  their  laws. 
Their  native  glorious  freedom. 

has  been  sent  forth  so  openly  into  public  sight,  and  has 
prevailed  so  completely  in  the  breast  of  all,  that  innocence 
is  not  rare,  but  non-existent^ 

IV.  And  it  was  an  age  of  deep  sadness.  That  it  should 
have  been  so  is  an  instructive  and  solemn  lesson.  In  pro- 
portion to  the  luxury  of  the  age  were  its  misery  and  its  ex- 

*  Compare  the  lines  in    Dyer's  little-remembered  Ruins  of  Rente, — 


"^TATE  OF  ROMAN  SOCIETY. 


47 


haustion.     The  mad  pursuit  of  pleasure  was  the  death  and 
de^^radation  of  all  true  happiness.     Suicide — suicide  out  of 
pure  <?;/;//// and  discontent  at  a  life  overflowing  with  every  pos- 
sible means  of  indulgence — was  extraordinarily  prevalent. 
The  Stoic  philosophy,  especially  as  we  see  it  represented  in 
the  tragedies  attributed  to  Seneca,  rang  with  the  glorifici- 
tion  ot  it.     Men  ran  to  death  because  their  mode  of  life 
had  left  them    no   other   refuge.     They   died   because  it 
seemed  so  tedious  and  so  superfluous  to  be  seeing  and 
doing  and  saying  the  same  things  over  and  over  again ;  and 
because  they  had  exhausted  the  very  possibility  of  the  only 
pleasures  of  which  they  had  left  themselves  capable.     The 
satirical  epigram  of  Destouches,- 

"Ci-git  Jean  Rosbif,  ecuyer, 
Qui  se  pcndit  pour  se  dcsennuyer," 

was  literally  and  strictly  true  of  many  Romans  during  this 
epoch.     Marcellinus,  a  young  and  wealthy  noble,  starved 
him'^elf  and  then  had  liimself  suffocated  in  a  warm  bath, 
merely 'because  he  was  attacked  witli  a  perfectly  curable 
illness      The  philosophy  which  alone  professed  itself  able 
to  heal  men's  sorrows  applauded  the  supposed  courage  of  a 
voluntary  death,  and  it  was  of  too  abstract,  too  fantastic, 
and  too  purely  theoretical  a  character  to  furnish  them  with 
any  real    or  lasting    consolations.     No   sentiment   caused 
more  surprise  to  the  Roman  world  than  the  famous  one  pre- 
served in  the  fragment  of  Maecenas,— 

•'Debilem  facito  manu, 
Debilem  pede,  coxa. 
Tuber  adstrue  gibberum, 
Lubricos  quate  denies; 


4& 


SEXECA, 


Vita  dum  siiDcrest  bene  est: 

Hanc  mihi  vel  acuta 
Si  sedcam  crucc  sustine;'* 


which  may  be  paraphrased,- 


*'  Numb  my  hands  with  palsy, 

Rack  my  feet  witli  gout, 
Hunch  iny  back  and  shoulder, 

Let  my  teeth  fall  out; 
Still,  if  Life  be  granted, 

I  prefer  the  loss; 
Save  my  life,  and  give  me 

Ani{uis]i  on  the  cross." 

Seneca,  in  his  loist  Letter,  calls  this  ''a  most  disgraceful 
and  most  conteai})tible  wish;"  bat  it  may  be  paralleled  out 
of  Euripides,  and  still  more  closely  out  of  Homer.  '"  Talk 
not,"  says  the  shade  of  Achilles  to  Ulysses  in  the  Odyssey, — 

**  'Talk  not  of  reigning  in  this  dolorous  gloom. 

Nor  think  vain  lies,'  he  cried,   'can  ease  my  dooD 
Better  by  far  laboriously  to  bear 
A  weight  of  ivoes^  ajid  breathe  the  vital  air, 
Slai'e  to  the  ?fieanest  hind  that  begs  his  b ready 
Than  reign  the  sceptred  mona^'ch  of  the  dead.  *  " 

But  this  falsehood  of  extremes  was  one  of  the  sad  outcomes 
of  the  popular  Paganism.  Either,  like  the  natural  savage, 
they  dreaded  death  with  an  intensity  of  terror;  or,  when 
their  crimes  and  sorrows  had  made  life  unsupportable,  they 
slank  to  it  as  a  refuge,  with  a  cowardice  which  vaunted 
itself  as  courage. 

V.  And  it  was  an  age  of  cruelty.  The  shows  of  gladia- 
tors, the  sanguinary  combats  of  wild  beasts,  the  not  unfre- 
quent  spectacle  of  savage  tortures  and  capital  punishments, 
the  occasional  sight  of  innocent  martyrs  burning  to  death 


STA  TE  OF  ROM  AX  SOCIETY, 


49 


in  their  shirts  of  pitchy  fire,  must  have   hardened  and  im- 
bruted  the  public  sensibility.     The  immense  prevalence  of 
slavery  tended  still  more  inevitably  to  the  general  corrup- 
tion.    '' Lust,"  as  usual,  was   ''hard  by  hate."     One  hears 
with  perfect  amazement  of  the  number  of   slaves   in  the 
wealthy  houses.     A  thousand  slaves  was  no   extravagant 
number,  and   the   vast   majority  of  them  were  idle,  unedu- 
cated and  corrupt.     Treated  as  little  better  than  animals, 
they  lost  much  of  the  dignity  of  men.     Their  masters  pos- 
sessed over  them  the  power  of   life  and  death,  and   it  is 
shocking  to  read  of  the  cruelty  with  which  they  were  often 
treated.     An  accidental  murmur,   a  cough,  a  sneeze,  was 
punished  with  rods.     Mute,  motionless,  fasting,  the  slaves 
had  to  stand  by  while  their  masters  supped.     A  brutal  and 
stupid  barbarity  often  turned  a  house  into  the  shambles  of 
an  executioner,  sounding  with  scourges,  chains,  and  yells.* 
One  evening  the  Emperor  Augustus  was  supping  at  the 
house  of  Vedius   Pollio,  when  one  of  the  slaves,  who  was 
carrying   a   crystal   goblet,    slipped    down,    and   broke   it. 
Transported  with  rage  Vedius  at  once  ordered  the  slave  to 
be  seized,  and  plunged  into  the    fish-pond    as  food  to  the 
lampreys.     The  boy  escaped  from   the  hands  of  his  fellow- 
slaves,  and  fled  to  Caesar's  feet  to    mplore,  not  that  his  life 
should  be  spared — a  pardon  which  he  neither  exi)ected  nor 
hoped — but  that  he  might  die  by  a  mode  of  death   less 
horrible  than  being  devoured  by  fishes.     Common  as  it  was 
to  torment   slaves,  and  to  put  them  to  death,  Augustus, 
to  his  honor  be  it  spoken,  was  horrified   by  the   cruelty  of 
Vedius,  and  commanded  both  that  the  slave  should  be  set 
free,  that  every  crystal  vase  in  the  house  of  Vedius  should 
be  broken  in  his  presence,  and  that  the  fish  pond  should  be 

*  Juv.   Sat,  vi.   219 — 222. 


5° 


SENECA. 


filled  up.     Even  women  inflicted  upon  their  female  slaves 
punishments  of  the  most  cruel  atrocity  for   faults  of  the 
most  venial  character.     A  brooch  wrongly  placed,  a  tress 
of  hair   ill-arranged,   and  the  enraged  matron  orders  her 
slave  to  be  lashed  and  crucified.     If  her  milder   husband 
interferes,  she  not  only  justifies  the  cruelty,   but  asks  in 
amazement :  "  What !  is  a  slave  so  much  of  a  human  being?" 
No  wonder  that  there  was  a  proverb,   "  As  many  slaves,  so 
many  foes."     No  wonder  that  many  masters  lived  in  per- 
petual fear,  and  that  "  the  tyrant's  devilish  plea,  necessity," 
might  be  urged  in  favor  of  that  odious   law  which  enacted 
that,  if  a  master  was  murdered  by  an  unknown  hand,  the 
whole  body  of  his  slaves  should  suff^er  death,— a  law  which 
more  than  once  was  carried  into  effect  under  the  reigns  of 
the  Emperors.     Slavery,  as  we  see  in  the  case  of  Sparta 
and  many  other  nations,  always  involves  its  own  retribution. 
The  class  of  free  peasant  proprietors  gradually  disappears. 
Long  before  this  time  Tib.  Gracchus,  in  coming  home  from 
Sardinia,   had  observed  that  there  was  scarcely  a   single 
freeman  to  be  seen  in  the  fields.    The  slaves  were  infinitely 
more  numerous  than  their  owners.     Hence  arose  the  con- 
stant dread  of  servile  insurrections;  the  constant  hatred  of 
a  slave  population  to  viiich  any  conspirator   revolutionist 
might  successfully  appeal ;  and  the  constant   insecurity  of 
life,  which  must  have  struck  terror  into  many  hearts. 

Such  is  but  a  faint  and  broad  outline  of  some  of  the 
features  of  Seneca's  age;  and  we  shall  be  unjust  if  we  do 
not  admit  that  much  at  least  of  the  Ufe  he  lived,  and  nearly 
all  the  sentiments  he  uttered,  gain  much  in  grandeur  and 
purity  from  the  contrast  they  offer  to  the  common  life  of— 

"  That  people  victor  once,  now  vile  and  base, 
Deservedly  made  vassal,  who,  once  just, 


STATE   OF  ROM  AX  SOCIETY 

Frugal,  and  mild,  and  temperate,  conquered  well. 

But  govern  ill  tlie  nations  under  yoke, 

Peeling  their  provinces,  exhausted  all 

By  lust  and  rapine;  first  ambitious  grown 

Of  triumph,  that  insulting  vanity; 

Then  cruel,  by  their  sports  to  blood  inured 

Of  fighting  beasts,  and  men  to  beasts  exposed, 

Luxurious  by  their  wealth,  and  greedier  still, 

And  from  the  daily  scene  effeminate. 

What  wise  and  valient  men  would  seek  to  free 

These  thus  degenerate,  by  themselves  enslaved  ; 

Or  could  of  inward  slaves  make  outward  free?" 

Milton,  Paradise  Regained,  iv.  132-145. 


51 


CHAPTER    IV. 


POLITICAL  CONDITION  OF  ROME  UNDER  TIBERIUS  AND  CAIUS. 


The  personal  notices  of  Seneca's  life  up  to  the  period  of 
his  manhood  a-e  sHglit  and  fragmentary.  From  an  inci- 
dental expression  we  conjecture  that  he  visited  his  aunt  in 
Ef^ypt  when  her  husband  was  Prefect  of  that  country,  and 
that  he  shared  with  her  the  dangers  of  shipwreck  when  her 
husband  had  died  on  board  ship  during  the  homeward  voy- 
age. Possibly  the  visit  may  have  excited  in  his  mind  that 
deep  interest  and  curiosity  about  the  phenomena  of  the 
Nile  which  appear  so  strongly  in  several  passages  of  his 
Natural  QuestUms  ;  and,  indeed  nothing  is  more  likely  than 
that  he  suggested  to  Nero  the  earliest  recorded  expedition 
to  discover  the  source  of  the  mysterious  river.  No  other 
allusion  to  his  travels  occur  in  his  writings,  but  we  may  infer 
that  from  very  early  days  he  had  felt  an  interest  for  physical 
inquiry,  since  wliile  still  a  youth  he  had  written  a  book  on 
earthquakes;  which  has  not  come  down  to  us. 

Deterred  by  his  father  from  the  pursuit  of  philosophy,  he 
entered  on  the  duties  of  a  profession.  He  became  an  advo- 
cate, and  distinguished  himself  by  his  genius  and  eloquence 
in  pleading  causes.     Entering  on  a  political  career,  he  be- 


ROME    UNDER    TIBERIUS  AXD   CAIUS. 


53 


came  a  successful  candidate  for  tlie  qucestorship,  which  was 
an  important  step   towards  the   h'ghest   offices  of  the  state. 
During  this  ]^erlod  of  his  life  ];e  marr'.ed  a  lady  whose  name 
has  not  been  preserved  to  us,  and  to  whom  we  have  only 
one  allusion,  wliich  is  a  curious  one.     As  in  our  own  history 
it  has  been  sometimes  the  fashion  for  ladies  of  rank  to  have 
dwarves  and  negroes  among  their  attendants,  so  it  seems  to 
liave  been  the  senseless  and  revolting  custom  of  the  Roman 
ladies  of  this  time  to  keep  idiots  among  the  number  of  their 
servants.     The  first  wife  of  Seneca  had  followed  this  fash- 
ion, and  Seneca  in  his  fiftieth  letter  to  his  friend  LuciUus* 
makes  the  following  interesting  allusion  to  the  fact.     ''You 
know,"  he   says,   ''that   my  wife's  idiot  girl   liarpaste  has 
remained  in  my  house  as  a  burdensome  legacy.     For  per- 
sonally I  feel  the  profoundest   dislike  to   monstrosities  of 
that  kind.      If  ever  I  waiit  to  amuse  myself  with  an  idiot, 
I  have  not  far  to  look  for  one.     I  laugh  at  myself.     This 
idiot  girl  has  suddenly  become  blind.      Now,  incredible  as 
the  story  seems,  it  is  really  true  that  she  is  unconscious  of 
her  blindness,   and  consequently  begs  her  attendant  to  go 
elsewhere,  because  the  house  is  dark.     But  you  may  be  sure 
that  this,  at  which  we  laugh  in  her,  happens  to  us  all;  no  one 
understands  that   he  is  avaricious  or  covetous.     The   blind 
seek  for  a  guide;  we  wander  about  without  a  guide." 

*  It  ^vill  be  observed  that  the  main  biographical  facts  about  the  life  of 
Seneca  are  to  be  gleaned  from  his  letters  to  Liicilius,  who  was  his  con- 
stant friend  from  youth  to  old  a^e,  and  to  whom  he  has  dedicated  his 
Natural  Questions.  Lucilius  was  a  procurator  of  Sicily,  a  man  of  cul- 
tivated taste  and  high  principle.  He  was  the  author  of  a  poem  on 
yT:tna,  which  in  the  opinion  of  many  competent  judges  is  the  poem 
which  has  come  down  to  us,  and  has  been  attributed  to  Varus,  Virgil, 
and  others.  It  has  been  admirably  edited  by  Mr.  Munro.  (See  iV< 
Qu(Est.  iv.  ad  tnit.  Ep.  Ixxix.  )  \\(:^  also  wrote  a  poem  on  the  fountain 
Arethusa.     {Sat.  Quast.  iii,  26.) 


54 


SEX  EC  A 


This  passage  will  furnish  us  with  an  excellent  example  of 
Seneca's  invariable  method  of  improving  every  occasion  and 
circumstance  into    an  opportunity   for  a  philosophic  har- 


angue. 


By  this  wife,  who  died  shortly  before  Seneca's  banish- 
ment^ to  Corsica,  he  had  two  sons,  one  of  whom  expired  in 
the  arms  and  amid  the  kisses  of  Helvia  less  than  a  month 
before  Seneca's  departure  for  Corsica.     To  the  other,  whose 
name  was  Marcus,  he  makes  the  following  pleasant  aUusion. 
After  urging  his  mother    Helvia  to  find   consolation  in  the 
devotion  of  his  brothers  GaUio  and  Mela,  he  adds,  ''From 
these  turn  your  eyes  also  on  your  grandsons — to  Marcus, 
that  most  charming  little  boy,  in  sight  of  whom  no  melan- 
choly can  last  long.     No  misfortune   in  the   breast  of  any 
one  can   have  been  so    great  or  so  recent  as  not  to  be 
soothed  by  his  caresses.     Whose  tears  would  not  his  mirth 
repress?  whose  mind  would  not  his  prattling  loose  from  the 
pressure  of  anxiety?  whom  will  not  that  joyous  manner  of 
his  incline  to  jesting?  whose  attention,  even  though  he  be 
fixed  in  thought,  will  not  be  attracted   and  absorbed  by 
that  childlike  garrulity   of  which    no  one  can  grow  tired? 
God  grant  that  he  may  survive  me:  may  all  the  cruelty  of 
destiny  be  weared  out  on  me !" 

Whether  the  prayer  of  Seneca  was  granted  we  do  not 
know ;  but,  as  we  do  not  again  hear  of  Marcus,  it  is  pro- 
bable that  he  died  before  his  father,  and  that  the  line  of 
Seneca,  like  that  of  so  many  great  men,  became  extinct  in 
the  second  generation. 

It  was  probably  during  this  period  that  Seneca  laid  the 
foundations  of  that  enormous  fortune  which  excited  the 
hatred  and  ridicule  of  his  opponents.  There  is  every  reason 
to  beheve  that  this   fortune  was  honourably  gained.     As 


ROME    U\DE/x     TliyERlES  AXD   CMCS, 


55 


both  his  father  and  mother  were  wealthy,  he  had  doubtless 
inherited  an  ample  competency ;  this  was  increased  by  the 
lucrative  profession  of  a  successful  advocate,  and  was  finally 
swollen  by  tl^.e  prince'.y  donations  of  his  pupil  Nero.     It  is 
not  improbable  that  Seneca,  hke  Cicero,  and  like  all  the 
wealthy  men  of  their  day,  increased  his  property  by  lending 
money    u[;on    interest.      No    disgrace    attached  to   siu^h    a 
course  ;  and  as  there  is  no  proof  for  the  charges  of  Dio  Cel- 
sius on  this  head,  we  may  pass  thiem  over  vv^ith  silent  ( 
tem})t.     Dio  gravely  informs  us  that  Seneca  excited  an  \  \ 
surrection  in  Britain,  by  suddenly  calling  in  the  enormous 
sum  of  40,000,000  sesterces;  but  this  is  in  all  probability 
the  calumny  of  a  professed  enemy.     AVe  shall  refer  a^ain 
to  Seneca's  wealth;  but  we  may  here  admit  that  it  was  un- 
doubtedly ungraceful  and  incongruous  in  a  pinlosopher  who 
was  perpetually  dwelling  on  t'ne  praises  of  ])overty,  and  that 
even  in  his  own  age  it  attracted  unfavoura])le  notice,  as  we 
may  see  from   the   epithet   Pmdivcs,   '^the  over-wealthy," 
which  is  apphed  to  him  alike  by  a  satiric  ])oet  an.d  by  a 
grave  historian.      Seneca  was  perfectly  well  aware  tiiat  this 
objection  could  be  urged  against  him.  and  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted that  the  grounds  on  which  he  defends  Jiimself  in  his 
treatise  On  a  Happy  Life  are  not  very  conclusive  or  satis- 
factory. 

The  boyhood  of  Seneca  fell  in  the  last  years  of  the  Em- 
peror Augustus,  wlien,  in  spite  of  the  general  decorum  and 
amiability  of  their  ruler,  i)eople  began  to  see  clearly  t  " 
nothing  was  left  of  liberty  except  the  name.  His  yo  '  . 
and  early  manhood  were  spent  during  those  three-an.: 
twenty  years  of  the  reign  of  Tiberius,  that  reign  of  terror, 
during  which  the  Roman  world  was  reduced  to  a  frighth.l 


s6 


SENECA . 


silence  and  torpor  as  of  death  ;*  and,  although  he  wa^  not 
thrown  mto  personal  collision  with  that  '^brutal  monster," 
he  not  unfrequently  alludes  to  him,  and  to  the  dangerous 
power  and  headlong  ruin  of  his  wicked  minibter  Sejanus. 
Up  to  this  time  he  had  not  experienced  in  nis  own  person 
those  crimes  and  horrors  which  fall  to  the  lot  of  men  who 
are  brought  into  close  contact  with  tyrants.  This  first  hap- 
pened to'him  in  the  reign  of  Caius  CcCsar,  of  whom  we  are 
enabled,  from  the  writings  of  Seneca  alone,  to  draw  a  full- 

iength  portrait. 

Caius  Ceesar  was  the  son  of  Germanicus  and  the  elder 
Agrippina.     Germanicus  was  the  bravest  and  most  success- 
ful general,  and  one  of  the  wisest  and  most  virtuous  men, 
of  his  day.      His  wife  Agrippina,  in  her  fidelity,  her  chastity, 
her  charity,  her  nobility  of  mind,  was  the  very  model  of  a 
Roman  niatron  of  tlie  highest  and  purest  stamp.     Strange 
that  the  son  of  such  parents  should  have  been  one  of  the 
vilest,  crudest,  and  foulest  of  the  human  race.     So,  how- 
ever, 'it  was ;  and  it  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  scarcely  one 
of  the  six  children  of  this  marriage  displayed  the  virtues  of 
their  father  and  mother,  while  two  of  them,  Caius  Ceesar 
and  the  younger  Agrippina,  lived  to  earn  an  exceptional 
infamy  by  their  baseness  and  their  crimes.     Possibly  this 
unhappy  result  may  have  been  partly  due  to  the  sad  circum- 
stances of  their  early  education.     Their  father,  Germanicus, 
who  by  his  virtue  and  his  successes  had  excited  the  suspi- 
cious jealousy  of  his  uncle  Tiberius,  was  by  his  distinct  con- 
nivance, if  not  by  his  actual  suggestion,  atrociously  poisoned 
in    Syria.     Agrippina,  after    being    subjected   to   countless 

*  Milton,  Paradise  Regained,  iv.  128.  For  a  picture  of  Tiberius  as 
he  appeared  in  his  old  age  at  Capreae,  ''hated  of  all  and  hating,"  see 
Id.  90—97. 


ROME    UXDER    TIBERIUS  AXD    CAIUS. 


57 


cruel  insults,  was  banished  in  the  extremest  poverty  to  the 
island  of  Pandataria.     Two  of  the  elder  brothers,  Nero  and 
Drusus    Germanicus,    were    proclaimed   pubhc    enemies: 
Nero  was  banished  to  the  island  Pontia,  and  there  put  to 
death ;  Drusus  was  kept  a  close  prisoner  in  a  secret  prison 
of  the  palace.     Caius,  the  youngest,  who  is  better  known 
by  the  name  Caligula,  was  summoned  by  Tiberius  to  his 
wicked  retirement  at  Caprece,  and  there  only  saved  his  life 
by  the  most  abject  flattery  and  the  most  adroit  submission. 
Caprese  is  a  little  island  of  surpassing  loveUness,  forming 
one  extremity  of  the  Bay  of  Naples.     Its  soil  is  rich,  its  sea 
bright  and  Umpid,  its  breezts  cool  and  healthful.     Isolated 
by  its  position,  it  is  yet  v/ithin  easy  reach  of  Rome.     At 
that  time,  before   Vesuvius  had  rekindled  those  wasteful 
fires  which  first  shook  down,  and  then  deluged  under  lava 
and  scoriae,  the  little  cities  of  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii, 
the  scene  which  it  commanded  was  even  more  pre-emi- 
nently   beautiful    than    now.     Vineyards    and   olive-groves 
clothed  the  sides  of  that  matchless  bay,  down  to  the  very 
line  where  the  bright  blue  waters  seem  to  kiss  with  their 
ripples  the  many-coloured  pebbles  of  the  beach.     Over  all, 
with  its  sides  dotted  with  picturesque  villas  and  happy  vil- 
lages, towered  the  giant  cone  of  the  volcano  which  for  cen- 
turies had  appeared  to  be  extinct,  and  which  was  clothed 
up  to  the  very  crater  with  luxurious  vegetation.     Such  was 
the  deUcious  home  which  Tiberius  disgraced  for  ever  by 
the  seclusion  of  his  old  age.     Here  he  abandoned  himself 
to  every  refinement  of  wickedness,  and  from  hence,  being 
by  common  consent  the  most  miserable  of  men,  he  wrote 
to  the  Senate  that  memorable  letter  in  which  he  confesses 
his  daily  and  unutterable  misery  under  the  stings  of  a  guilty 


58 


SKY  EC  A. 


conscience,  which  ne'.llier  solitude   nor  power  enabled  him 

to  escape. 

Never  did  a  fairer  scene  undergo  a  worse  degradation ; 
and  here,  in  one  or  other  of  the  twelve  villas  which  l^iberi- 
us  had  built,  and  among  tlie  azure  grottoes  which  he  caused 
to  be  constructed,  the  youthful  Caius*  grew  up  to  manhood. 
It  would   have  been  a  terrible  school   even  for  a  nob^e 
nature ;  for  a  nature  corrupt  and  bloodthirsty  like  that  of 
Caius  it  was  complete  and  total  ruin.     But,  though  lie  was 
so  obsequious  to  the  Emperor  as  to  originate  the  jest  that 
never  had  there  been  a  worse  master  and  never  a  more 
cringing  slave,— tliough  he  sui^ressed  every  sign  of  indig- 
nation at  tl^e  horrid  deaths  of  his  mother  and  his  brotliers, 
—though  he  assiduously  reflected  th.e  looks,  and  carefully 
echoed^he  very  words,  of  his  patron,— yet  not  even  by  the 
deep  dissimulation  which  such  a  position  required  did  he 
succeed  in  concealing  from  the  penetrating  eye  of  Tibenus 
the  true  ferocity  of  his  character.     Not  being  the  acknow- 
ledged heir  to  the  kingdom,— for  Tiberius  Gemellus,  the 
youthful  grandson  of  Tiberius,  was  living,  and  Caius  was  by 
birth  only  his  grand-nephew,— he  became  a  tool  for  the 
machinations  of  Marco  the  prcetorian  prefect  and  his  wife 
Ennia.     One  of  his  chief  friends  was  the  cruel  Herod  Ag- 
rippa,t  who  put   to   death  St.  James  and  imprisoned   St. 

*We  shall  call  him  Caius,  because  it  is  as  little  correct  to  write  of 
him  by  the  sobriquet  Caligula  as  it  would  be  hahitually  to  write  of^our 
kings  Edward  or  John  as  Longshanks  or  Lackland.  The  name  Cah- 
gula  means  -  a  little  shoe,"  and  was  the  pet  name  given  to  him  by  the 
soldiers  of  his  father,  in  whose  camp  he  was  horn. 

fjosephus  adds  some  curious  and  interesting  particulars  to  the  story 
of  this  Ilcrod  and  his  death  which  are  not  mentioned  in  the  narrative 
of  St.  Luke  ^Antiq.  xix.  7,  8.      Jahn,  Ilch:  Commonwealth,  §  CKXVi.j 


ROME    UNDER    I'JBERJi'S   AXD   CAIUS, 


59 


Peter,  and  whose  tragical  fate  is  recorded  in  the  12th  chap, 
of  the  Acts.     On  one  occasion,  wi len  Caius  had  been  abus- 
ing the  dictator  Sulla,  Tiberius  scornfully  remarked  that  he 
would  have  all  Sulla's  vices  and  none  of  his  virtues  ;  and 
on  another,  after  a  quarrel  between  Caius  and  his  cousin, 
the  Emperor  embraced  with  tears  his  young  grandson,  and 
said  to  the  frowning  Caius,  with  one  of  those  strange  flashes 
of  prevision  of  which  we  sometimes  read  in  history.     ''  Why 
are  you  so  eager?     Some  day  you  will  kill  this  boy,  and 
some  one  else  will  murder  you."     There  were  some  who 
beheved  that  Tiberius  deliberately  cherished  the  intention 
of  allowing  Caius  to  succeed  him,  in  order  that  the  Roman 
world  might    relent    towards   his    own  memory  under  the 
tyranny  of  a  worse  monster  than  himself.     Even  the  Romans, 
who   looked  up  to    the   family   of   Germanicus   with   ex- 
traordinary affection,  -eem  early  to  have  lost  all  hopes  about 
Caius.     They  looked  for  little  improvement  under  the  gov- 
ernment of  a  vicious  boy,  'ignorant  of  all  things,  or  nurt- 
ured only  in  the  worst,"  who  would  be  likely  to  reflect  the 
influence  of  Macro,  and  present  the  spectacle  of  a  worse 
Tiberius  under  a  worse  Sejanus. 

At  last  health  and  strength  failed  Tiberius,  but  not  his 
habitual  dissimulation.     He  retained  the  same  unbending 
soul,  and  by  his  fixed  countenance  and  measured  language, 
sometimes  by  an  artificial  affability,  he  tried  to  conceal  his 
approaching  end.     After  many  restless  changes,  he  final!} 
settled  down  in  a  villa  at  Misenum  which  had  once  be- 
longed to  the  luxurious  EucuUus.     There  the  real  state  01 
his  health  was  discovered.     Charicles,  a  distinguished  phy- 
sician, who  had  been  paying  him  a  friendly  visit  on  kissing 
his  hand  to  bid  farewell,  managed  to  ascertain  the  state  oi 
his  pulse.     Suspecting  that  this  was  the  case  Tiberius,  con- 


6o 


SENECA. 


cealing  his  displeasure,  ordered  a  banquet  to  be  spread,  as 
though  in  honour  of  his  friend's  departure,  and  stayed 
longer  than  usual  at  table.  A  similar  story  is  told  of  Louis 
XIV  who,  noticing  from  the  whispers  of  his  courtiers  that 
they  beheved  him  to  be  dying,  ate  an  unusually  large  din- 
ner on  the  very  day  of  his  death,  and  sarcastically  observed, 
''  II  me  semble  que  pour  un  homme  qui  va  mourir  je  ne 
mange  pas  mal."  But,  in  spite  of  the  precautions  of  Tibe- 
rius, Charicles  informed  Macro  that  the  Emperor  could  not 
last  beyond  two  days. 

A  scene  of  secret  intrigue  at  once  began.  The  court 
bioke  up  into  knots  and  cliques.  Hasty  messengers  were 
sent  to  the  provinces  and  their  armies,  until  at  last,  on  the 
1 6th  of  March,  it  was  believed  that  Tiberius  had  breathed 
his  last.  Just  as  on  the  death  of  Louis  XV.  a  sudden 
noise  was  heard  as  of  thunder,  the  sound  of  courtiers  rush- 
ing along  the  corridors  to  congratulate  Louis  XVI.  in  the 
famous  words,  *'Le  roi  est  mort,  vive  le  roi,"  so  a  crowd  in- 
stantly thronged  round  Caius  with  their  congratulations,  as 
he  went  out  of  the  palace  to  assume  his  imperial  authority. 
Suddenly  a  message  reached  him  that  Tiberius  had  recov- 
ered voice  and  sight.  Seneca  says,  that  feeling  his  last 
hour  to  be  near,  he  had  taken  off  his  ring,  and,  holding  it 
in  his  shut  left  hand,  had  long  lain  motionless ;  then  calling 
his  servants,  since  no  one  answered  his  call,  he  rose  from 
his  couch,  and,  his  strength  failing  him,  after  a  few  totter- 
ing steps  fell  prostrate  on  the  ground. 

The  news  produced  the  same  consternation  as  that  which 
was  produced  among  the  conspirators  at  Adonijah's  ban- 
quet, when  they  heard  of  the  measures  taken  by  the  dying 
David.  There  was  a  panic-stricken  dispersion,  and  every 
one  pretended  to  be  grieved,  or  ignorant  of  what  was  going 


ROME    UXDER    TIBERIUS  AXD   CAIi  S. 


6i 


on.  Caius,  in  stupified  silence,  expected  death  instead  of 
empire.  Macro  alone  did  not  lose  his  pr-esence  of  mind. 
With  the  utmost  intrepidity,  he  gave  orders  that  the  old 
man  should  be  suffocated  by  heaping  over  him  a  mass  of 
clothes,  and  that  every  one  should  then  leave  the  chamber. 
Such  was  the  miserable  and  unpitied  end  of  the  Emperor 
Tiberius,  in  the  seventy-eighth  year  of  his  age.  Such  was 
the  death,  and  so  miserable  had  been  the  life,  of  the  man  to 
whom  the  Tempter  had  already  given  "  the  kingdoms  of 
the  world  and  the  glory  of  them,"  when  he  tried  to  tempt 
with  them  the  Son  of  God.  That  this  man  should  have 
been  the  chief  Emperor  of  the  earth  at  a  time  when  its  true 
King  was  living  as  a  peasant  in  his  village  home  at  Naz- 
areth, is  a  fact  suggestive  of  many  and  of  solemn  thoughts. 


CHAPTER  V. 


THE    REIGN    OF    CAIUS. 

The  poet  (^ray,  in  describing  the  deserted  deathbed  of  our 
own  great  Edward  III.,  says: — 

**  Low  on  his  fvmeral  couch  he  hes  ! 

No  pitying  heart,  no  eye  afford 

A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies  ! 

♦  *  *  *  * 

The  swarm  that  in  the  noontide  beam  were  born  ? 

Gone  to  saUite  the  rising  Morn. 

Fair  laughs  the  Morn,  and  soft  the  zephyr  blows, 

While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm, 

In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  vessel  goes  ; 

Youth  on  the  prow  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm ; 

Regardless  of  the  sweeping  Whirlwind's  sway. 
That,  hushed  in  grim  repose,  expects  his  evening  prey.'' 

The  last  lines  of  this  passage  would  alone  have  been  ap- 
plicable to  Caius  Ccesar.  There  was  nothing  fair  or  gay 
even  about  the  beginning  of  his  reign.  From  first  to  last 
it  was  a  reigii  of  fury  and  madness,  and  lust  and  blood. 
There  was  an  hereditary  taint  of  insanity  in  this  family, 
which  was  developed  by  their  being  placed  on  the  dizzy 
pinnacle  of  imperial  despotism,  and  which  usually  took  the 
form  of  monstrous  and  abnormal  crime.     If  we  would  seek 


THE  REIGX  OF  CAIUS. 


63 


I 


a  parallel  for  Caius  Caesar,  we  must  look  for  it  in  the  his- 
tory of  Christian  VII.  of  Denmark,  and  Paul  of  Russia. 
In  all  three  we  find  the  same  ghastly  pallor,  the  same  sleep- 

* 

lessness  which  compelled  them  to  rise,  and  pace  their 
rooms  at  night,  the  same  incessant  suspicion;  the  same  in- 
ordinate thirst  for  cruelty  and  torture.  He  took  a  very 
early  opportunity  to  disembarrass  himself  of  his  benefac- 
tors, Macro  and  Ennia,  and  of  his  rival,  the  young  Tiberius. 
The  rest  of  his  reign  was  a  series  of  brutal  extravagances. 
We  have  lost  the  portion  of  those  matchless  Annals  of 
Tacitus  which  contained  the  reign  of  Caius,  but  more  than 
enough  to  revolt  and  horrify  is  preserved  in  the  scattered 
notices  of  Seneca,  and  in  the  narratives  of  Suetonius  in 
Latin  and  Dio  Cassius  in  Greek. 

His  madness  showed  itself  sometimes  in  gluttonous  ex- 
travagance, as  when  he  ordered  a  supper  which  cost  more 
than  8,000/;  sometimes  in  a  bizarre  and  disgraceful  mode 
of  dress,  as  when  he  appeared  in  public  in  women's  stock- 
ings, embroidered  with  gold  and  pearls  ;  sometimes  in  a 
personality  and  insolence  of  demeanor  towards  every  rank 
and  class  in  Rome,  which  made  him  ask  a  senator  to 
supper,  and  ply  him  with  drunken  toasts,  on  the  very 
evening  on  which  he  had  condemned  his  son  to  death ; 
sometimes  in  slieer  raving  blasphemy,  as  when  he  expressed 
his  furious  indignation  against  Jupiter  for  presuming  to 
thunder  while  he  was  supping,  or  looking  at  the  panto- 
mimes ;  but  most  of  all  in  a  ferocity  which  makes  Seneca 
apply  to  him  the  name  of  -  Bellua,"  or  "wild  monster," 
and  say  that  he  seems  to  have  been  produced  ''  for  the  dis- 
grace and  destruction  of  the  human  race." 

We  will  quote  from  the  pages  of  Seneca  but  one  single 
passage  to  justify  his  remark  '^  that  he  was  most  greedy  for 


64 


SEX  EC  A. 


THE  REIGX  OF  CAIUS. 


65 


human  blood,  which  he  ordered  to  stream  in  his  very  pres- 
ence with  such  eagerness  as  though  he  were  going  to 
drink  it  .up  with  his  lips."  He  says  that  in  one  day  he 
scourged  and  tortured  men  of  consular  and  quaestorial  par- 
entage, knights  and  senators,  not  by  way  of  examination, 
but  out  of  pure  caprice  and  rage;  he  seriously  meditated 
the  butchery  of  the  entire  senate  ;  he  expressed  a  wish  that 
the  Roman  people  had  but  a  single  neck,  that  he  might 
strike  it  off  at  one  blow;  he  silenced  the  screams  or  re- 
proaches of  his  victims  sometimes  by  thrusting  a  sponge  m 
their  mouths,  sometimes  by  having  their  mouths  gagged 
with  their  own  torn  robes,  sometimes  by  ordering  their 
tongues  to  be  cut  out  before  they  were  thrown  to  the  wild 
beasts.  On  one  occasion,  rising  from  a  banquet,  he  called 
for  his  slippers,  which  were  kept  by  the  slaves  while  the 
guests  reclined  on  the  purple  couches,  and  so  impatient 
was  he  for  the  sight  of  death,  that,  walking  up  and  down 
his  covered  portico  by  lampHght  with  ladies  and  senators, 
he  then  and  there  ordered  some  of  his  wretched  victims  to 
be  beheaded  in  his  sight. 

It  is  a  singular  proof  of  the  unutterable  dread  and  detest- 
ation inspired  by  some  of  these  Ccesars,  that  their  mere 
countenance  is  said  to  have  inspired  anguish.  Tacitus,  m 
the  hfe  of  his  father-in-law  Agricola,  mentions  the  shudder- 
ing recollection  of  the  red  face  of  Domitian,  as  it  looked  on 
at  the  games.  Seneca  speaks  in  one  place  of  wretches 
doomed  to  undergo  stones,  sword,  fire,  and  Cams;  m 
another  he  says  that  he  had  tortured  the  noblest  Romans 
with  everything  which  could  possibly  cause  the  intensest 
agony,— with  cords,  plates,  rack,  fire,  and,  as  though  it 
were  the  worst  torture  of  all,  with  his  look  1  ^\'hat  that 
look  was,  we  learn  from   Seneca  himself,   "  His  face  was 


i 


ghastly  pale,  with  a  look  of  insanity;  his  fierce,  dull  eyes 
were  half-hidden  under  a  wrinkled  brow;  his  ill-shaped  head 
was  partly  bald,  partly  covered  with  dyed-hair ;  his  neck 
covered  with  bristles,  his  legs  thin,  and  his  feet  mis-shapen." 
Woe  to  the  nation  that  lies  under  the  heel  of  a  brutal  des- 
potism ;  treble  woe  to  the  nation  that  can  tolerate  a  despot 
so  brutal  as  this  !  Yet  this  was  the  nation  in  the  midst  of 
which  Seneca  lived,  and  this  was  the  despot  under  whov:i 
his  early  manhood  was  spent. 

**  But  what  more  oft  in  nations  grow-n  corrupt, 
And  by  their  vices  brought  to  servitude, 
Than  to  love  bondage  more  than  Hberty, 
Bondage  with  ease  than  strenuous  liberty?" 

It  was  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  Caius  Caesar  that  he 
hated  the  very  existence  of  any  excellence.  He  used  to 
bully  and  insult  the  gods  themselves,  frowning  even  at  the 
statues  of  Apollo  and  Jupiter  of  the  Capitol.  He  thought 
of  abolishing  Homer,  and  order  the  works  of  Livy  and 
Virgil  to  be  removed  from  all  libraries,  because  he  could 
not  bear  that  they  should  be  praised.  He  ordered  Julius 
Graecinus  to  be  put  to  death  for  no  other  reason  than  this, 
**  That  he  was  a  better  man  than  it  was  expedient  for  a  ty- 
rant that  any  one  should  be  ;"  for,  as  Pliny  tells  us,  the 
Caesars  deliberately  preferred  that  their  people  should  be 
vicious  than  that  they  should  be  virtuous.  It  was  hardly 
likely  that  such  a  man  should  view  with  equanimity  the 
rising  splendour  of  Seneca's  reputation.  Hitherto,  the 
young  man,  who  was  thirty-five  years  old  at  the  accession 
of  Caius,  had  not  written  any  of  his  philosophic  works,  but 
in  all  probability  he  had  published  his  early,  and  no  longer 
extant,  treatises  on   earthquakes,  on  superstitions,  and  the 


66 


S  EXEC  A. 


books  On  India,  and  On  the  Manners  of  Egypt,  which  had 
been  the  fruit  of  his  early  travels.     It  is  probable,  too,  t'.iat 
.-,e  had  recited  in  public  some  of  those  tragedies  which  have 
come  down  to  us  under  his  name,  and  in  the  composition 
of  which  he  was  certainly  concerned.     All  these  works,  and 
especially  the   applause  won  by  the   puWic  reading  of  his 
poems,  would  have  given  him  that  high  literary  reputation 
which  we  know  him  to  have  earned.     It  was  not,  however, 
this  reputation,  but  the  brilliancy  and  eloquence  of  his  ora- 
tions at  the  bar  which  excited  the  jealous  hatred  of  the 
Emperor.     Caius  piqued  himself  on  the  possession  of  elo- 
quence ;  and,  strange  to  say,  there  are  isolated  expressions 
of  his  which  seem  to  show  that,  in  lucid  intervals,  he  was 
by  no    means    devoid  of  intellectual    acuteness.     For  m- 
stance.  there  is  real  humour  and  insight  in  the  nicknames 
of  "  a  golden  sheep  "  which  he  gave  to  the  ricli  and  placid 
Silanus.  and  of  "  Ulysses  in  petticoats,"  by  which  he  desig- 
nated his  grandmother,   the  august  Livia.     The   two  epi- 
grammetic  criticisms  which  he  passed   upon   the  style  of 
Seneca  are  not  wliolly  devoid  of  truth  ;   he  called  his  works 
Commissmus  meras,  or  mere  displays.*      In  this  expression 
l,e  hit  off,    happily    enough,  the  somewhat  theatrical,  the 
slightly  pedantic  and  pedagogic  and  professorial  character  of 
Seneca's  diction,  its  rhetorical  ornament  and  and  antitheses, 
and    its    deficiency    in    stem     masculine    simplicity    and 
strength.     In    another  remark   he   showed    himself  a  still 
more  fehcitous  critic.     He  called  Seneca's  writings  Areiiv 
siiw  Cake.    "  sand  without  lime,"  or,  as  we  miglit  say,   "  a 
rope  of  sand."     This  epigram  showed  a  real  critical  facilty. 
1 1  exactlv  hits  off  Seneca's  short   and   disjointed  sentences, 
corsisting    as  they   often    do   of   detached   antitheses.      It 

Suet.    Calig.    liii. 


THE  REIGX  OF  CAIUS, 


67 


accords  with  the  amusing  comparison  of  Malebranche,  tr.at 
Seneca's  composition,  with  its  perpetual  and  futile  recur- 
rences, calls  up  to  him  the  image  of  a  dancer  who  ends 
wheie  he  begins. 

But  Caius  did  not  confmc  himself  to  clever  and  malignant 
criticism.  On  one  occasion,  when  Seneca  was  pleading  in 
his  presence,  he  was  so  jealous  and  displeased  at  the  bril- 
liancy and  power  of  the  orator  that  he  marked  him  out  for 
immediate  execution.  Had  Seneca  died  at  this  period  he 
would  probably  have  been  little  known,  and  he  might  have 
left  few  traces  of  his  existence  beyond  a  few  tragedies  of 
uncertain  authenticity,  and  possibly  a  passing  notice  in  the 
page  of  Dio  or  Tacitus.  But  destiny  reserved  him  for  a 
more  splendid  and  more  questionable  career.  One  of 
Caius's  favourites  whispered  to  the  Emperor  that  it  was  use- 
less to  extinguish  a  waning  lamp ;  that  the  health  of  the 
orator  was  so  feeble  that  a  natural  death  by  the  progress  of 
his  consumptive  tendencies  would,  in  a  very  short  time,  re- 
move him  out  of  the  tyrant's  way. 

Throughout  the  remainder  of  the  few  years  during  which 
the  reign  of  Caius  continued,  Seneca,  warned  in  time,  with- 
drew himself  into  complete  obscurity,  employing  his  en- 
forced leisure  in  that  unbroken  industry  which  stored  his 
mind  with  such  encyclopa3dic  wealth.  ''  None  of  my  days," 
he  says,  in  describing  at  a  later  period  the  way  in  which  lie 
hpent  his  time,  ''is  passed  in  complete  ease.  I  claim  even 
a  part  of  tl^e  night  for  my  studies.  I  do  wot  find  leisure  for 
*:leep,  but  I  suctu??il)  to  it,  and  1  keep  my  eyes  at  their  work 
even  when  they  are  wearied  and  drooi)ing  witli  watchful- 
ness. I  ha\e  retired,  not  only  from  men,  but  from  affairs, 
and  especially  from  my  own.  1  am  doing  the  work  for 
posterity ;  I  am  writing  out  things  which  may  prove  of 
.3 


68 


SEXECA. 


advantage   to  them.      I   am  intrusting  to    writing  health- 
ful admonitions— compositions,  as  it  were,  of  useful  medi- 

cinei. 

But  the  days  of  Caius  drew  rapidly  to  an  end.     His  gross 
and   unheard-of  insults   to  Valerius  Asiaticus  and   Cassius 
Choreas  brought  on  him  condign  vengeance.      It  is  an  ad- 
ditional proof,  if  proof  were  wanting,  of  the  degradation  of 
Imperial  Rome,  that  the  deed  of  retribution  was  due,  not 
to  the  people  whom  he   taxed ;  not  to  the  soldiers,  whole 
regiments  of  whom  he  had  threatened  to  decimate  ;  not  to 
the  knishts.  of  whom  scores  had  been  put  to   death   by  his 
orders  ;    not   to  the   nobles,  multitudes  of  whom  had  been 
treated  by  him  with  conspicuous  infamy ;  not  even  to  the 
Senate,  which  illustrious  body  he  had  on  all  occasions  de- 
liberately treated  with   contumely  and   hatred, — but  to  the 
private  revenge  of  an  insulted  soldier.      The  weak  thin  voice 
of  Cassius    Chiiereas,  tribune  of  the  pr^torian  cohort,  had 
marked  him  out  for  the  coarse  and  calumnious  banter  of 
the  imperial  buffoon  ;  and  he  determined  to  avenge  himself, 
and  at  the  same  time  rid  the  world  of  a  monster.      He  en- 
gaged several  accomplices   in    the    conspiracy,    which  was 
nearly  frustrated    by  their  want   of  resolution.      For   four 
whole   days  they  hesitated,  while  day  after  day,  Caius  pre- 
sided in   person  at  the  bloody  games  of  the  amphitheatre. 
On  the   fifth    day  (Jan.  24,  a.  d.  41),   feeling  unwell  after 
one  of  his  gluttonous  suppers,  he  was  indisposed  to  return 
to  the  shows,  but  at  last  rose   to  do   so  at  the   solicitatio.i 
of  his   attendants.      A  vaulted  corridor  led  from  the  palace 
to   the  circus,  and   in  that   corridor   Caius   met  a   body  of 
noble  Asiatic  boys,  who  were  to  dance  a  Pyrrhic  dance  and 
sing  a  laudatory  ode  upon  the   stage.      Caius  wished  them 
at  once  to  practice  a  rehearsal  in  his  presence,  but  their 


THE  REIGN  OF  CAIUS, 


69 


leader  excused  himself  on  the  grounds  of  hoarseness.  At 
this  moment  Chaereas  asked  him  for  the  watchword  of  the 
night.  He  gave  the  watchword,  ''Jupiter."  ''Receive 
him  in  his  wrath  !"  excaimed  Chc^reas,  striking  him  on  the 
tliroat,  while  almost  at  the  same  moment  the  blow  of 
Sabinus  cleft  the  tyrant's  jaw,  and  brought  him  to  his  knee. 
He  crouched  his  hmbs  together  to  screen  himself  from 
further  blows,  screaming  aloud,  "  I  live  !  I  live  1"  The 
bearers  of  his  litter  rushed  to  his  assistance,  and  fought 
with  their  poles,  but  Caius  fell  pierced  with  thirty  wounds ; 
and,  leaving  the  body  weltering  in  its  blood,  the  conspira- 
tors rushed  out  of  the  palace,  and  took  measures  to  concert 
witli  the  Senate  a  restoration  of  the  old  Republic.  On  the 
very  night  after  the  murder  tiie  consuls  gave  to  Chnereas  the 
long-forgotten  watchword  of  "  Liberty."  But  this  little 
gleam  of  hope  proved  delusive  to  the  last  degree.  It  was 
believed  that  tlie  unquiet  ghost  of  tlie  murdered  madman 
haunted  the  palace,  and  long  before  it  had  been  laid  to 
rest  by  the  forms  of  decent  sepulchre,  a  new  em])eror  of  the 
great  JuHan  family  was  securely  seated  upon  the  throne. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  REIGN  OF  CLAUDIUS,  AND  THE  BANISHMENT  OF  SENECA. 

While  the  senators  were  deliberating,  the  soldiers  were  act^ 
ing.  They  felt  a  true,  though  degraded,  instinct  that  to  re- 
store the  ancient  forms  of  democratic  freedom  would  be 
alike  impossible  and  useless,  and  with  them  the  only  ques- 
tion lay  between  tlie  rival  claimants  for  the  vacant  power. 
Strange  to  say  that,  among  these  claimants,  no  one  seems 
ever  to  have  thought  of  mentioning  the  prince  who  became 
the  actual  successor. 

There  was  hving  in  the  palace  at  this  time  a  brother  of 
the  great  Germanicus,   and  consequently  an  uncle  of  the 
late  emperor,  whose  name  was  Claudius  Ccesar.     Weakened 
both  in  mind  and  body  by  the  continuous  maladies  of  an 
orphaned  infancy,  kept  under  the  cruel  tyranny  of  a  bar- 
barous slave,  the  unhappy  youth  had  lived  in  despised  ob- 
scurity among  the  members  of  a  family  who  were  utterly 
ashamed  of  him.     His  mother  Antonia  called  him  a  mon- 
strosity, which  Nature  had  begun  but  never  finished ;  and 
it  became  a  proverbial  expression  with  her,  as  is  said  to 
have  been  the  case  with  the  mo^:er  of  the  great  Wellington, 
to  say  of  a  dull  person,  ^'  that  he  was  a  greater  fool  than  her 
son  Claudius."     His  grandmother  Livia  rarely  deigned  to 
address  him  except  in  the  briefest  and  bitterest  terms.     His 


THE  REIGX  OF  GLA  UDIUS. 


71 


sister  Livilla  execrated  the  mere  notion  of  his  ever  becom- 
ing emperor.  Augustus,  his  grandfather  by  adoption,  took 
pains  to  keep  him  as  much  out  of  sight  as  possible,  as  a 
wool-gathering*  and  discreditable  member  of  the  family, 
denied  him  all  public  honours,  and  left  him  a  most  paltry 
legacy.  Tiberius,  when  looking  out  for  a  successor,  delib- 
erately passed  him  over  as  a  man  of  deficient  intellect. 
Caius  kept  him  as  a  butt  for  his  own  slaps  and  blows,  and 
for  the  low  bufioonery  of  his  mea:ie.-.t  jesters.  If  the  un- 
happy Claudius  came  late  for  dinner,  he  would  find  every 
place  occupied,  and  peer  about  disconsolately  amid  insult- 
ing smiles.  If,  as  was  his  usual  custom,  he  dropped  asleep 
after  a  meal,  he  was  pelted  with  olives  and  date-stones,  or 
rough  stockings  were  drawn  over  h"s  hands  that  he  might 
be  seen  rubbing  his  face  with  them  when  he  was  suddenly 
awaked. 

This  was  the  unhappy  being  who  was  now  summoned  to 
support  the  falling  weight  of  empire.  While  rummaging 
the  palace  for  plunder,  a  common  soldier  had  spied  a  pair 
of  feet  protruding  from  under  the  curtains  which  shaded  the 
sides  of  an  upper  corridor.  Seizing  these  feet,  and  inquir- 
ing who  owned  them,  he  dragged  out  an  uncouth,  panic- 
stricken  mortal,  who  immediately  prostrated  himself  at  his 
knees  and  begged  hard  for  mercy.  It  was  Claudius,  whj 
scared  out  of  his  wits  by  the  tragedy  which  he  had  just  be- 
held, had  thus  tried  to  conceal  himself  until  the  storm  was 
passed.  ^"  Why,  this  is  Germanicus  !"t  exclaimed  tiie 
soldier,  ''let's  make  him  emperor."     Half  joking  and  half 

♦lie  calls  him  j^iEvdoopo^,  which  implies  awkwardness  and  constant 
absence  of  mind. 

tThe  full  name   of  Claudius   was  Tiberius   Claudius   Drusus  Cae«ar 
Germanicus. 


SEX  EC  A. 


i^  earnest,  they  hoisted  him  on  their  sliouldeiS— for  to:  or 
had  deprived  lum  of  the  use  of  his  legs— and  hurried  hii.i 
off  to  the  camp  of  the  Prcetorians  Miserable  and  anxious 
he  readied  the  camp,  an  object  of  compassion  to  the  crowd 
of  passers-by,  who  believed  that  he  was  beir.g  hurried  off  to 
execution.  But  the  soldiers,  who  well  knew  their  own  in- 
terests, accepted  him  with  acclamations,  the  more  so  as,  by 
a  fatal  precedent,  he  promised  them  a  largess  of  more  than 
80/.  apiece.  The  supple  Agrij^pa  (the  Herod  of  Acts  xii.), 
seeing  how  the  wind  lay,  offered  to  plead  his  cause  with  the 
Senate,  and  succeeded  partly  by  arguments,  partly  by  in- 
timidation, and  partly  by  holdmg  out  the  not  unreasonable 
hopes  of  a  great  improvement  on  the  previous  reign. 

For  although  Claudius  had   been   accused   of  gambling 
and  drunkenness,  not  only  were  no  7i'orse  sins  laid  to  his 
charge,  but  he  had  successfully  established  some  claim  to 
being  considered  a  learned  man.      Had  fortune  blessed  him 
till  death  with  a  private  station,  he  m'ght  have  been  the 
Lucien  Bonaparte  of  his  family— a  studious  prince,  who  pre- 
ferred the  charms  of  literature  to  the  turmoil  of  ambition. 
The  anecdotes  which  have  been  recorded  of  him  show  that 
he  was  something  of  an  archaeologist,  and  something  of  a 
philologian.     The  great  historian  Livy,  pitying  the  neglect 
with  which  the  poor  young  man  was  treated,  had  encour- 
aged him   in  the   study    of   history ;  and    he    had    written 
memoirs  of  his  own  time,  memoirs  of  Augustus,  and  even  a 
history  of  the  civil  wars  since  the  battle   of  Actium,  which 
was  so  correct  and  so  candid  that  his  family  indignantly 
suppressed  it  as  a  fresh  proof  of  his  stupidity. 

Such  was  the  man  who,  at  the  age  of  fifty,  became  mas- 
ter of  the  civilized  world.  He  offers  some  singular  points 
of  resemblance  to  our  own  ''  most  mighty  and  dread  sover- 


TIJE  REICK  OF  CLAUDIUS. 


73 


eign,"  King  James  I.  Both  were  learned,  and  both  were 
eminently  unwise  ;*  both  of  them  were  authors,  and  both 
of  them  were  pedants  ;  both  of  them  delegated  their  highest 
powers  to  worthless  favourites,  and  both  of  them  enriched 
these  favourites  with  such  foolish  liberality  that  they  re- 
mained poor  themselves.  Both  of  them  had  been  terrified 
into  constitutional  cowardice  by  their  involuntary  presence 
at  deeds  of  blood.  Both  of  them,  though  of  naturally  good 
dispositions,  were  misled  by  selfishness  into  acts  of  cruelty ; 
and  both  of  them,  though  laborious  in  the  discharge  of 
duty,  succeeded  only  in  rendering  royalty  ridiculous.  King 
James  kept  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  in  prison,  and  Claudius 
drove  Seneca  into  exile.  The  parallel,  so  far  as  I  am 
aware,  has  never  been  noticed,  but  is  susceptible  of  being 
drawn  out  into  the  minutest  particulars. 

One  of  his  first  acts  was  to  recall  his  nieces,  Julia  and 
Agrippina,  from  tlie  exile  into  which  their  brother  had 
driven  them ;  and  both  these  princesses  were  destined  to 
effect  a  powerful  influence  on  the  life  of  our  philosopher. 

What  part  Seneca  had  taken  during  the  few  troubled 
days  after  the  murder  of  Caius  we  do  not  know.  Had  lie 
taken  a  leading  part — had  he  been  one  of  those  who,  like 
Chasreas,  opposed  the  election  of  Claudius  as  being  merely 
the  substitution  of  an  imbecile  for  a  lunatic, — or  who,  like 
Sabinus,  refused  to  survive  the  accession  of  another  Caesar, 
— we  should  perhaps  have  heard  of  it ;  and  we  must  there- 
fore assume  either  that  he  was  still  absent  from  Rome  in 
tie  retirement  into  which  he  had  been  driven  by  the  jeal- 
ousy of  Caius,  or  that   he   contented  himself  with   quietly 


*  <■(■ 


Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,"  says  our  own  poet.  Hcr- 
aclitus  had  said  the  same  thing  more  than  two  thousand  year*  before 
him,  TtaXv^a^ir^  ov  ^%6d6HQQ. 


74 


SENECA . 


watchinc^  the  course  of  events.     It  will  be  observed  that  his 
biography  is  not  like  that  of  Cicero,  with  whose  hfe  we  are 
acquainted   in  most  trifling  details;  but  that  the  curtam 
rises  and  falls  on  isolated  scenes,  throwing  into  sudden  bril- 
hancy  or  into  the  deepest  shade  long  and  important  periods 
of  his  history.     Nor  are  his  letters  and  other  writings  full  of 
those  poUtical  and  personal  allusions  which  convert  them 
into  an  autobiography.     They  are,  without  exception,  oc- 
cupied exclusively  with  philosophical  questions,  or  else  they 
only  refer  to  such  personal  reminiscences  as  may  best  be 
converted  into  the  text  for  some  Stoical  paradox  or  moral 
declamation.     It  is,  however,  certain  from  the  sequel  that 
Seneca  must  have  seized  the  opportunity  of  Caius's  death  to 
emerge  from  his  politic  obscurity,  and  to  occupy  a  con- 
spicuous and  brilliant  position  in  the  imperial  court. 

It  would  have  been  well  for  his  own  happiness  and  fame 
if  he  had  adopted  the  wiser  and  manher  course  of  acting  up 
to  the  doctrines  he  professed.     A  court  at  most  periods  is, 

as  the  poet  says, 

***  A  golden  but  a  fatal  circle, 
Upon  whose  magic  skirts  a  thousand  devils 
In  crystal  forms  sit  tempting  Innocence, 
And  beckon  early  Virtue  from  its  centre;" 

but  the  court  of  a  Caius,  of  a  Claudius,  or  of  a  Nero,  was 
indeed  a  place  wherein  few  of  the  wise  could  find  a  footing, 
and  still  fewer  of  the  good.  And  all  that  Seneca  gained 
from  his  career  of  ambition  was  to  be  suspected  by  the  first 
of  these  Emperors,  banished  by  the  second,  and  murdered 

by  the  third. 

The  first  Jew  acts  of  Claudius  showed  a  sensible  and 
kindly  disposition  ;  but  it  soon  became  fatally  obvious  that 
the  real  powers  of  the  government  would  be  wielded,  not 


THE  REIGX  OF  CLAUDIUS. 


75 


by  tlie  timid  and  absent-minded  Emperor,  but  by  any  one 
wlio  for  the  time  being  could  acquire  an  ascendency  over 
his  well-intentioned  but  feeble  disposition.  Now,  the 
friends  and  confidents  of  Claudius  had  long  been  chosen 
from  the  ranks  of  his  freedmen.  As  under  Louis  XL  and 
Don  Miguel,  the  barbers  of  these  monarchs  were  the  real 
governors,  so  Claudius  was  but  the  minister  rather  than  tlie 
n.aster  of  Narcissus  his  private  secretary,  of  Polybius  his 
literary  adviser,  and  of  Pallas  his  accountant.  A  third  per- 
son, with  whose  name  Scripture  has  made  us  familiar,  was 
a  freedman  of  Claudius.  This  was  Felix,  the  brother  of 
Pallas,  and  that  Procurator  who,  though  he  liad  been  tlie 
husband  or  the  paramour  of  three  queens,  trembled  before 
the  simple  eloquence  of  a  feeble  and  imprisoned  Jew.* 
These  men  became  proverbial  for  their  insolence  and 
wealth  ;  and  once,  when  Claudius  was  complaining  of  his 
own  poverty,  some  one  wittily  replied,  "  that  lie  would  have 
abundance  if  two  of  his  freedmen  would  but  admit  him  into 
partnership  with  them." 

But  these  men  gained  additional  power  from  the  coun- 
tenance and  intrigues  of  the  young  and  beautiful  wife  of 
Claudius,  Valeria  Messalina.  In  his  marriage,  as  in  all 
else,  Claudius  had  been  pre-eminent  in  misfortune.  He 
lived  in  an  age  of  which  the  most  frightful  sign  of  depravity 
was  that  its  women  were,  if  possible,  a  shade  worse  than  its 
men  ;  and  it  w^as  the  misery  of  Claudius,  as  it  finally  proved 
his  ruin,  to  have  been  united  by  marriage  to  the  very  worst 
among  them  all.  Princesses  like  the  Berenice,  and  the 
Drusilla,  and  the  Salome,  and  ti::e  Herodias  of  the  sacred 
historians  were  in  this  age  a  familiar  spectacle ;  but  none  of 
them  were  so  wicked  as  two  at  least  of  Claudius's  wives, 

*  Acts  xix. 


76 


SEXECA. 


He  was  betrotlied  or  married  no  less  than  five  times.     The 
lady  fust  destined  for  his  bride  had  been  repudiated  be- 
cause her  parents  had  offended  Augustus  ;  the  next  died  on 
the  very  day  intended  for  her  nuptials.     By  his  first  actual 
wife   Urgulania,  whom  he  had  married  in  early  youth,  he 
had 'two  children,  Drusus  and  Claudia;  Drusus  was  acc;- 
dentally  choked  in  boyhood  while  trying  to  swallow  a  pear 
which  had  been  thrown  up  into  the  air.     Very  shortly  after 
the  birth  of  Claudia,  discovering  the  unfaithfulness  of  Ur- 
gulania, Claudius  divorced  her,  and  ordered  the  child  to  be 
stripped  naked  and  exposed  to  die.     His  second  wife,  ^ha 
I'etina  seems  to  have  been  an  unsuitable  person,  and  her 
also  he  divorced.     His  third  and  fourth  wives  lived  to  earn 
a   colossal  infamy-Valeria   MessaUna   for  her  shameless 
character,  Agrippina  the  younger  for  her  unscrupulous  am- 
bition 

Messalina.  when  she  married,  could  scarcely  have  been 

fifteen  years  old,  yet  she  at  once  assumed  a  dominant  posi- 
tion, and  secured  it  by  means  of  the  most  unblushing  wick- 

But  she  did  not  reign  so  absolutely  undisturbed  as  to  be 
without  her  own  jealousies  and  apprehensions  ;  and  these 
were  mainly  kindled  by  Julia  and  Agrippina,  the  two  nieces 
of  the  Emperor.     They  were,  no  less  than  herself,  beautiful, 
briUiant,  and  evil-hearted  women,  quite  ready  to  make  their 
own  coteries,  and  to  dispute,  as  far  as  they  dared,  the  sup- 
remacy of  a  bold  but  reckless  rival     They  too,  used  the.r 
arts  their  wealth,  their  rank,  their  political  influence,  the.r 
personal  fascinations,  to  ^ecu-e  for  themselves  a  band  of 
adherents,  ready,  when  the  proper  moment  arrived,  for  any 
conspiracy.     It  is  unlikely  that,  even  in  the  first  flush  of  her 
husband's    strange    and    unexpected    triumph,    Messahna 


T//£  REIGX  OF  CLAUDIUS. 


n 


should  have  contemplated  with  any  satisfaction  their  return 
from  exile.  In  this  respect  it  is  probable  that  the  Emperor 
succeeded  in  resisting  her  expressed  wishes ;  so  that  the 
mere  appearance  of  the  two  daughters  of  Germanicus  in  her 
presence  was  a  standing  witness  of  the  Hmitations  to  which 
her  influence  was  subjected. 

At  this  period,  as  is  usual  among  degraded  peoples,  the 
history  of  the  Romans  degenerates  into  mere  anecdotes  of 
their  rulers.  Happily,  however,  it  is  not  our  duty  to  enter 
on  the  chronique  scajidaleuse  of  plots  and  counterplots,  as 
little  tolerable  to  contemplate  as  the  factions  of  the  court 
of  France  in  the  worst  periods  of  its  history.  We  can  only 
ask  what  possible  part  a  philosopher  could  play  at  such  a 
court  ?  We  can  only  say  that  his  position  there  is  not  to  the 
credit  of  his  philosophical  professions;  and  that  we  can 
contemplate  his  presence  there  with  as  little  satisfaction  as 
we  look  on  the  figure  of  the  worldly  and  frivolous  bishop  in 
Mr.  Frith's  picture  of  "The  Last  Sunday  of  Charles  11.  at 

W^hitehall." 

And  such  inconsistencies  involve  their  own  retribution, 
not  only  in  loss  of  influence  and  fair  fame,  but  even  in 
direct  consequences.  It  was  so  with  Seneca.  Circum- 
stances—possibly a  genuine  detestation  of  Messalina's  ex- 
ceptional infamy— seem  to  have  thrown  him  among  the 
partisans  of  her  rivals.  Messalina  was  only  waiting  her  op- 
portunity to  strike  a  blow.  Julia,  possibly  as  being  the 
younger  and  the  less  powerful  of  the  two  sisters,  was  marked 
out  as  the  first  victim,  and  the  opportunity  seemed  a  favour- 
able one  for  involving  Seneca  in  her  ruin.  His  enormous 
wealth,  his  high  reputation,  his  splendid  abilities,  made  hira 
a  formidable  opponent  to  the  Empress,  and  a  valuable  ally 
to  her  rivals.     It  was  determined  to  get  rid  of  both  by  a 


7S 


SENECA. 


THE  REIGN  OF  CLAUDIUS. 


79 


single  scheme.  Julia  was  accused  of  an  intrigue  with 
Seneca,  and  was  first  driven  into  exile  and  then  put  to 
death.  Seneca  was  banished  to  the  barren  and  pestilential 
shores  of  the  island  of  Corsica. 

Seneca,  as  one  of  the  most  enlightened  men  of  his  age, 
should  have  aimed  at  a  character  which  would  have  been 
above  the  possibility  of  suspicion :  but  we  must  remember 
that  charges  such  as  those  which  were  brought  against  him 
were  the  easiest  of  all  to  make,  and  the  most  impossible  to 
refute.     When  we  consider  who  were  Seneca's  accusers,  we 
are  not  forced  to  beUeve  his  guilt ;  his  character  was  indeed 
deplorably  weak,  and  the  laxity  of  the  age  in  such  matters 
was  fearfully  demorahsing ;  but  there  are  sufficient  circum- 
stances in  his  favour  to  justify  us  in  returning  a  verdict  of 
"  Not  guilty."     Unless  we  attach  an  unfair  importance  to 
the  bitter  calumny  of  his  open  enemies,  we  may  consider 
that  the  general  tenor  of  his  hfe  has  sufficient  weight  to  ex- 
culpate him  from  an  unsupported  accusation. 

Of  Julia,  Suetonius  expressly  says  that  the  crime  of  which 
she  was    accused   was  uncertain,  and  that  she  was    con- 
demned unheard.     Seneca,  on  the  other  hand,  was  tried  in 
the  Senate  and  found  guilty.     He  tells  us  that  it  was  not 
Claudius  who  flung  him  down,  but  rather  that,  when  he  was 
falling  headlong,  the  Emperor  supported  him  with  the  mod- 
eration of  his  divine  hand;  ^Mie  entreated  the  Senate  on  my 
behalf;  he  not  only  gave  me  life,  but  even  begged  it  for  me. 
Let  it  be  his  to  consider,'^  adds  Seneca,  with  the  most  dul- 
cet flattery,  ''  in  what  light  he  may  wish  my  cause  to  be  re- 
garded; either  his  justice  will  find,  or  his  mercy  will  make, 
it  a  good  cause.     He  will  alike  be  worthy  of  my  gratitude, 
whether  his  ultimate  conviction  of  my  innocence  b^  ^^)*i  to 
his  knowledge  or  to  his  will." 


This  passage  enables  us  to  conjecture  how  matters  stood. 
The  avarice  of  Messalina  was  so  insatiable  that  the  non- 
confiscation  of  Seneca's  immense  wealth  is  a  proof  that,  for 
some  reason,  her  fear  or  hatred  of  him  was  not  implacable. 
Although  it  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  she  is  barely  men- 
tioned, and  never  once  abused,  in  the  writings  of  Seneca, 
yet  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  charge  was  brought  by 
her  instigation  before  the  senators ;  that  after  a  very  slight 
discussion,  or  none  at  all,  Claudius  was,  or  pretended  to  be 
convinced  of  Seneca's  culpabiHty ;  that  the  senators,  with 
their  usual  abject  servility,  at  once  voted  him  guilty  of  high 
treason,  and  condemned  him  to  death,  and  the  confiscation 
of  his  goods ;  and  that  Claudius,  perhaps  from  his  own  re- 
spect for  literature,  perhaps  at  the  intercession  of  Agrippina, 
or  of  some  powerful  freedman,  remitted  part  of  his  sent- 
ence, just  as  King  James  I.  remitted  all  the  severest  por- 
tions of  the  sentence  passed  on  Francis  Bacon. 

Neither  the  belief  of  Claudius  nor  the  condemnation  of 
the  Senate  furnish  the  slightest  valid  proofs  against  him. 
The  Senate  at  this  time  were  so  base  and  so  filled  with 
terror,  that  on  one  occasion  a  mere  word  of  accusation  from 
the  freedman  of  an  Emperor  was  sufficient  to  make  them 
fall  upon  one  of  their  number  and  stab  him  to  death  upon 
the  spot  with  their  iron  pens.  As  for  poor  Claudius,  his 
administration  of  justice,  patient  and  laborious  as  it  was, 
had  already  grown  into  a  public  joke.  On  one  occasion  he 
\vrote  down  and  delivered  the  wise  decision,  ''that  he 
ao-reed  with  the  side  which  had  set  forth  the  truth."     On 

o 

another  occasion,  a  common  Greek  whose  suit  came  be- 
fore him  grew  so  impatient  at  his  stupidity  as  to  exclaim 
aloud,  ''  You  are  an  old  fool."  We  are  not  informed  that 
the  Greek   was  punished.     Roman  usage   allowed  a  good 


8o 


SEN  EC  A. 


\ 


deal  of  banter  and  coarse  personality.  We  are  told  that 
on  one  occasion  even  the  furious  and  bloody  Caligula,  see- 
ing a  provincial  smile,  called  him  up,  and  asked  him  what 
he  was  laughing  at.  ''  At  you,"  said  the  man,  "  you  look 
such  a  humbug."  The  grim  tyrant  was  so  struck  with  the 
humour  of  the  thing  that  he  took  no  further  notice  of  it. 
A  Roman  knight  against  whom  some  foul  charge  had  been 
trumped  up,  seeing  Claudius  listening  to  the  most  contemi> 
tible  and  worthless  evidence  against  him,  indignantly  abused 
him  for  his  cruel  stupidity,  and  flung  his  pen  and  tablets  in 
his  face  so  violently  as  to  cut  his  cheek.  In  fact,  the  Em- 
peror's singular  absence  of  mind  gave  rise  to  endless  anec- 
dotes. Among  other  things,  when  some  condemned  crimi- 
nals were  to  fight  as  gladiators,  and  addressed  him  before 
the  games  in  the  sublime  formula— ''Ave,  Imperator,  mori- 
turi  te  salutamus  !"  ("  Hail,  Caesar !  doomed  to  die,  we 
salute  thee !")  he  gave  the  singularly  inappropriate  answer, 
''  Avete  vos  !"  (''  Hail  ye  also  !")  which  they  took  as  a  sign 
of  pardon,  and  were  unwilling  to  fight  until  they  were  act- 
ually forced  to  do  so  by  the  gestures  of  the  Emperor. 

The  decision  of  such  judges  as  Claudius  and  his  Senate 
is  worth  very  little  in  the  question  of  a  man's  innocence  or 
guilt;  but  the  sentence  was  that  Seneca  should  be  banished 
to  the  island  of  Corisca. 


V 


CHAPTER  VII. 


SENECA    IN    EXILE. 

So,  in  A.  D.  41,  in  the  prime  of  life  and  the  full  vigour  of 
his  faculties,  with  a  name  stained  by  a  charge  of  whicla  he 
may  have  been  innocent,  but  of  which  he  was  condemned 
as  guilty,  Seneca  bade  farewell  to  his  noble-minded  mother, 
to  his  loving  aunt,  to  his  brothers,  the  beloved  Gallio  and 
the  literary  Mela,  to  his  nephew,  the  ardent  aud  promismg 
young  Lucan,  and,  above  all-which  cost  him  the  severest 
pan--to  Marcus,  his  sweet  and  prattling  boy.     It  was  a 
calamity  which  might  have  shaken  the  fortitude  of  the  very 
noblest  soul,  and  it  had  by  no  means  come  upon  him  single 
handed.     Already  he  had    lost  his  wife,  he  had  suffered 
from  acute   and  chronic  lU-health,  he  had  been  bereaved 
but  three  weeks  previously  of  another  little  son.     He  had 
been  cut  short  by  the  jealousy  of  one  emperor    rom  a 
career  of  splendid   success ;  he  was  now  banished  by  the 
imbecile   subservience  of   another  from    all  that   he  held 

most  dear.  .        -  .1 

We  are  hardly  able  to  conceive  the  intensity  of  anguish 
with  which  an  ancient  Roman  generally  regarded  the 
thouc^ht  of  banishment  In  the  long  melancholy  wad  of 
Ovid^s  "Tristia;"  in  the  bitter  and  heart-rending  com- 
plaints of  Cicero's  » Epistle,."  we  may  see  somethmg  of 


82 


SENECA. 


that  intense  absorption  in  the  hfe  of  Rome  which  to  most 
of  her  eminent  citizens  made  a  permanent  separation  from 
the  city  and  its  interests  a  thought  ahiiost  as  terrible  as 
death  itself.  Even  the  stoical  and  heroic  Thrasea  openly 
confessed  that  he  should  prefer  death  to  exile.  To  a  heart 
so  affectionate,  to  a  disposition  so  social,  to  a  mind  so 
active  and  ambitious  as  that  of  Seneca,  it  must  have  been 
doubly  bitter  to  exchange  the  happiness  of  his  family  circle, 
the  splendour  of  an  imperial  court,  the  luxuries  of  enormous 
wealth,  the  refined  society  of  statesmen,  and  the  ennobling 
intercourse  of  philosophers  for  the  savage  wastes  of  a  rocky 
island  and  the  society  of  boorish  illiterate  islanders,  or  at 
the  best,  of  a  few  other  political  exiles,  all  of  whom  would 
be  as  miserable  as  himself,  and  some  of  whom  would  prob- 
ably have  deserved  their  fate. 

The  Mediteranean  rocks  selected  for  political  exiles — 
Gyaros,  Seriphos,  Scyathos,  Patmos,  Pontia,  Pandataria — 
were  generally  rocky,  barren,  fever-stricken  places,  chosen 
by  design  as  the  most  wretched  conceivable  spots  in  which 
human  life  could  be  maintained  at  all.  Yet  these  islands 
were  crowded  with  exiles,  and  in  them  were  to  be  found 
not  a  few  princesses  of  Caesarian  origin.  We  must  not 
draw  a  parallel  to  their  position  from  that  of  an  Eleanor, 
the  wife  of  Duke  Humphrey,  immured  in  Peel  Castle  in 
the  Isle  of  Man,  or  of  a  Mary  Stuart  in  the  Isle  of  Loch 
Levin — for  it  was  something  incomparably  worse.  No  care 
was  taken  even  to  provide  for  their  actual  wants.  Their 
very  lives  were  not  secure.  Agrippa  Posthumus  and  Nero, 
the  brothers  of  the  Emperor  Caligula,  had  been  so  reduced 
by  starvation  that  both  of  tlie  w  etched  youths  had  been 
driven  to  support  life  ])y  citing  the  materials  with  which 
their  beds  were  stuffed.      The    Emperor  Caius  had  once 


SENECA  IX  EXILE, 


«3 


asked  an  exile,  whom  he  had    recalled  from  banishment, 
In   what  manner  he  had  been   accustomed  to  employ  his 
time  on  the  island.     ''  I  used,"  sa'd  the  flatterer,   ''  to  pray 
that    Tiberius    might  die,  and    that  you    might  succeed." 
It   immediately  struck   Caius  that  the  exiles  whom  he  had 
banished  might  be  similarly  employed,  and  accordingly  he 
sent  centurions  round  the  islands  to  put  them  all  to  death. 
Such  were  the  miserable  circumstances  which  might  be  in 
store  for  a  political  outlaw.     If  we  imagine  what  must  have 
been  the  feeUngs  of  a  d'Espremcnil,  when  a  Icttce  de  cacJiet 
consigned  him  to  a  prison  in  the  Isle  d'Hieres ;  or  what  a 
man  like  Burke  might  have  felt,  if  he  had  been  compelled 
to  retire  for  hfe  to  the  Bermudas ;  we  may  realize  to  some 
extent  the  heavy  trial  which  now  befel  the  life  of  Seneca. 

Corsica  was  the  island  chosen  for    his  place  of  banish- 
ment, and  a  spot  more  uninviting  could  hardly  have  been 
selected.     It    was   an  island  "shaggy   and  savage,"  mter- 
sected  from  north  to  south  by  a  cliain  of  wild,  inaccessible 
mountains,  clothed  to  their  summits  with  gloomy  and  impen- 
etrable forests  of  pine  a;id  fir.     Its  untamable  inhabitants 
are  described  by  the  geographer  Strabo  as  being  "  wilder 
than  the  wild  beasts."      It  produced  but  little  corn,  and 
ccarcely  any  fruit-trees.     It  abounded,  indeed,  in  swarms 
of  wild  bees,  but  its  very  honey  was  bitter  and  unpalatable, 
from  being  infected  with  the  acrid  taste  of  the  box-flowers 
on  which  they  fed.     Neither  gold  nor  silver  were  found 

*  Among  the  Jews  the  homicides  who  had  fled  to  a  city  of  refuge 
were  set  fr'e  on  L  high  priest's  death,  and,  in  order  to pr^.U  tJu^ 
fro>nprayin,forkisd.atK  the  mother  and  other  relatives  of  the  h  gh 
pncst  used  to  supply  the:n  with  clothes  and  other  necessaries^  S  e^th 
author's  article  on  ''Asylu-n^  in  Kitto's  Encyclop^dta  (ed.  Alexan 
der. ) 


«4 


SEXECA 


there ;  it  produced  nothing  worth  exporting,  and  barely 
sufficient  for  tlie  me:e  necessaries  of  its  inhabitants  ;  it  re- 
joiced in  no  great  navigable  rivers,  and  even  the  trees,  in 
which  it  abounded,  were  neither  beautiful  nor  fruitful. 
Seneca  describes  it  in  more  than  one  of  his  epigrams,  as  a 

"Terrible  isle,  when  earliest  summer  glows 
Vet  fiercer  when  his  face  the  dog-star  shows ;" 

fid  again  as  a 

"Barbarous  land,  which  rugged  rocks  surround, 
Whose  horrent  cliffs  with  idle  wastes  are  crowned, 
No  autumn  fruit,  no  tilth  the  summer  yields. 
Nor  olives  cheer  the  winter-silvered  fields  : 
Nor  joyous  spring  her  tender  foliage  lends, 
Nor  genial  herb  the  luckless  soil  befriends  ; 
Nor  bread,  nor  sacred  fire,  nor  freshening  wave; — 
Nought  here — save  exile,  and  the  exile's  grave  !" 

In  such  a  place,  and  under  such  conditions,  Seneca  had 
ample  need  for  all  his  philosophy.  And  at  first  it  did  not 
fail  Liai.  Towards  the  close  of  his  first  year  of  exile  he 
wrote  the  "  Consolation  to  his  mother  Helvia,"  whi4::h  is 
one  of  the  noblest  and  most  charming  of  all  his  works. 

He  had  often  thought,  he  said,  of  writing  to  console  her 
under  this  deep  and  wholly  unlooked-for  trial,  but  hitherto 
he  had  abstained  from  doing  so,  lest,  while  his  own  an- 
guish and  hers  were  fresh,  he  should  only  renew  the  pain 
of  the  wound  by  his  unskilful  treatment.  He  waited, 
therefore  till  time  had  laid  its  healing  hand  upon  her  sor- 
rows, especially  because  he  found  no  precedent  for  o;ie  i.i 
his  position  condoling  with  others  when  he  himself  seemed 
more  in  need  of  consolation,  and  because  something  new 
and  admirable  would  be  required  of  a  man  who,  as  it  were, 


SE.\ECA    IX  EXILE. 


85 


raised  his  head  from  the  funeral  pyre  to  console  his  friends. 
Still  he  now  feels  impelled  to  write  to  her,  because  to  alle- 
viate her  regrets  will  be  to  lay  aside  his  own.     He  does  not 
attempt  to  conceal  from  her  the  magnitude  of  the  misfortune, 
because  so  far  from  being  a  mere  novice  in  sorrow,  she  has 
tasted  it  from  her  earliest  years  in  all  its  varieties ;  and  be- 
cause his  purpose  was  to  conquer  her  grief,  not  to  extenu- 
ate its  causes.     Those   many  miseries  would  indeed  have 
been  in  vain,  if  they  had  not  taught  her  how  to  bear  wretch- 
edness.     He   will  prove  to  her  therefore  that  she   has  no 
cause  to  grieve  either  on  his  account,  or  on  her  own.     xNot 
on  his— because  he  is  happy  among  circumstances  which 
others  would  think   miserable  and  because  he  assures  her 
with  his  own  lips  that  not  only  is  he  not  miserable,  but  that 
he  can  never  be  made  so.     Every  one  can  secure  his  own 
happiness,  if  lie  learns  to  seek  it,  not  in  external  circum- 
stances, but  in  himself.      He  cannot  indeed  claim  for  him- 
self the  iitle  of  wise,  for,  if  so,  he  would  be  the  most  fortu- 
nate of  men,  and  near  to  God  Hmiself ;  but,  which  is  the 
next  best  thing,  he  has  devoted  himself  to  the  study  of  wise 
men  and  from  them  he  lias  learnt  to  expect  nothing  and  to 
be  prepared  for  all  things.     The  blessings  which  Fortune 
had  hitherto  bestowed  on  him,-wealth,  honours,  glory,- 
he  had  placed  in  such  a  position  that  she  might  rob  hmi  of 
them  all  without  disturbing  him.     There  was  a  great  space 
between  them  and  himself,  so  that  they  could  be  taken  but  not 
torn  away.     Undazzled  by  the  glamour  of  prosperity,  he  was 
unshaken    by    the    blow    of   adversity.     In   circumstances 
which  were  the  envy  of  all  men  he  had  never  seen  any  ija 
or  solid  blessing,  but  rather  a  painted  emptmess,  a  g.lded 
deception  ;  and  similarly  he  found  nothing  really  hard  or 
terrible  in  ills  which  the  common  voice  has  so  descnbeU, 


86 


SENECA. 


What,  for  instance,  was  exile  ?  it  was  but  a  change  of 
place,  an    absence    from    one's  native    land;     and,  if  you 
looked  at  the  swarming  multitudes  in  Rome  itself,  you  would 
find  that  the  majority  of  them  were  practically  in  contented 
and  willing  exile,  drawn  thither  by  necessity,  by  ambition, 
or  by  the  search  for  the  best   opportunities  of  vice.     No 
isle  so  wretched  and  so  bleak  wliich  did  not  attract  some 
voluntary  sojourners ;  even  this  precipitous  and  naked  rock 
of  Corsica,  the  hungriest,  roughest,  most  savage,  most  un- 
healthy spot  conceivable,  had   more  foreigners  in   it   than 
native  inhabitants.     The  natural  restlessness  and  mobility 
ot  the  human  mind,  wiiich  arose  from   its   aetherial  origin, 
drove  men  to  change  from  place  to  place.     The  colonies  of 
different  nations,  scattered  all  over  the  civihzed  and  uncivi- 
lized world  even  in   spots   the   most  chilly  and  uninviting, 
show  that  the  condition  of  place  is  no  necessary  ingredient 
in  human  happiness.      Even  Corsica  had  often  changed  its 
owners ;  Greeks  from  Marseilles  had  first  lived  there,  then 
Ligurians  and  Spaniards,  then  some  Roman  colonists,  whom 
the  aridity  and  thorniness  of  the  rock  had  not  kept  away. 
"  Varro  thought  that  nature,  Brutus  that  the  conscious- 
ess  of  virtue,  were  sufficient   consolations  for  any  exile. 
1  low  little  have  I  lost  in  comparison  with  those  two  fairest 
possessions  which  1  siiall  everywhere  enjoy — nature  and  my 
own  integrity  !     Whoever  or  whatever  made   the  world— 
whe:^-er  it  were  a  deity,  or  disembodied  reason,  or  a  divine 
mtei.'^ising  spirit,  or  destiny,  or  an  immutable  series  of  con- 
nected causes— the  result  was  that  nothing,  except  our  very 
meanest  posocssions,  should  depend  on  the  will  of  another. 
Man's  be.t  gifts  lie  beyond  the  power  of  man  either  to  give 
or  to  take  awa}-.     This  Universe,  the  grandest  and  lovehest 
work  of  nature,  and  the  Intellect  which  was  created  to  ob- 


SENECA  IN  EXILE, 


87 


serve  and  to  admire  it,  are  our  special  and  eternal  posses- 
sions, which  shall  last  as  long  as  we  last  ourselves.  Cheer- 
ful, therefore,  and  erect,  let  us  hasten  with  undaunted  foot- 
steps whithersoever  our  fortunes  lead  us. 

"  There  is  no  land  where  man  cannot  dwell,— no  land 
where  he  cannot  upUft  his  eyes  to  heaven ;  wherever  we  are, 
the  distance  of  the  divine  from  the  human  remains  the 
same.     So  then,  as  long  as  my  eyes  are  not  robbed  of  that 
spectacle  with  which  they  cannot  be  satiated,  so  long  as  I 
may  look  upon  the  sun   and  moon,  and  fix  my  lingermg 
gaze  on  the  other  constellations,  and  consider  their  rising 
and  setting  and  the  spaces  between  them  and  the  causes   • 
of  their  less  and  greater  speed,-while  1  may  contemplate 
the  multitude  of  stars  glittering  throughout  the  heaven,  some 
stationary,   some  revolving,  some  suddenly  blazing  forth, 
others  dazzhng  the  gaze  with  a  flood  of  fire  as  though  they 
fell   and   others  leaving  over  a  long  space  their  trails  o 
li.ht  •  while  I  am  in  the  midst  of  such  phenomena,  and 
minde  myself,  as  far  as  a  man  may,  with  things  celestial,- 
S  my  soul  is  ever  occupied  m  contemplations  so  subhme 
as  these,  what  matters  it  what  ground  I  tread . 

-  What  though  fortune  has  thrown  me  where  the  most 
magmficent  abode  is  but  a  cottage?  the  ^--^lest  cotta^^^^ 
if  it  be  but  the  home  of  virtue,  may  be  more  beautiful  than 
all  temples;  no  place  .s  narrow  which  can  con  am  the 
crowd  of  glorious  virtues;  no  exile  severe  into  which  ou 
,  ay  go  wUh  s„ch  a  rella,.ce.     When  Bru.u,  lefj  Ma,cel,„ 

at  Ilftylene,  he  seemed  to  be  ^--Vr'^rtm      C^sL 
ranse   he   left  that  illustrious    exile   behmd   him.     C^sar 
Tm  n:t  L  at  Mitylene,  because  he  blushed  to  se  , 
Marcellus  therefore,  though  he  was  hving  ^'Y,""'     ""     ' 
erty,  was  Uving  a  most  happy  and  a  most  noble  hfe. 


88 


SEXECA, 


One  self-approving  hour  whole  worlds  outweighs 
Of  stupid  starers  and  of  loud  huzzas  ; 
And  more  true  joy  Marcellus  exiled  feels, 
Than  Csesar  with  a  senate  at  his  heels.  ' 

-And  as  for   poverty  every  one  who  is  not    corrupted 
by  the  madness  of  avarice   and  kixury  know  that   it  is  no 
evil.     How  httle  does  man  need,  and  how  easily  can  he  se- 
cure that !     As  for  me,  I  consider  myself  as  having  lost  not 
wealth,  but   the  trouble  of  looking  after  it.     Bodily  wants 
are  few— warmth  and  food,  nothing  more.     May  the  gods 
and  goddesses  confound  that  gluttony  which   sweeps'"  the 
sky,   and  sea  and   land  for  birds,   and   animals,   and   fish ; 
which  eats  to  vomit  and  vomits  to  eat,  and  hunts  over  the 
whole  world  for  that  which  after  all  it  cannot  even  digest ! 
They  might  satisfy  their  hunger  with  little,  and  they  ex- 
cite it  with  much.      What  harm  can   poverty  inflict  on  a 
man  who  despises  such  excesses  ?     Look  at  the  god-like 
and  heroic    poverty  of  our    ancestors,    and    compare    the 
smiple    glory  of   a  Camillus  with  the  lasting  infamy  of  a 
luxurious   Apicius  !     Even   exile  will  yield   a  sufficiency  of 
necessaries,  but  not   even   kingdoms   are  enough  for  super- 
fluities.    It  is  the   soul  that  makes  us  rich  or  poor:    and 
the  soul  follows  us  into  exile,  and  finds  and  enjoys  its  own 
blessings  even  in  the  most  barren  solitudes. 

"  But  it  does  not  even  need  philosophy  to  enable  us 
to  despise  poverty.  Look  at  the  poor :  are  they  not  often 
obviously  happier  than  the  rich  ?  And  the  times  are  so 
changed  that  what  we  would  now  consider  the  poverty  of 
an  exile  would  then  have  been  regarded  as  the  patrimony 
of  a  prince.  Protected  by  such  precedents  as  those  of 
Homer,  and  Zeno,  and  Menenius  Agrippa,  and   Regulus 


SENECA    IX  EXILE, 


$9 


and  Scipio,  poverty  becomes  not  only  safe  but  even  esti- 
mable. 

*^  And  if  you  make  the    objection    that  the  ills  which 
assail  me  are  not  exile  only,  or  poverty  only,  but  disgrace 
as  well,    I   reply   that  the  soul  which  is  hard    enough  to 
resist  one  wound  is  invulnerable  to  all.     If  we  have  utterly 
conquered  the   fear  of  death,  nothing  else  can  daunt  us. 
What  is  disgrace  to   one  who  stands  above  the  opinion  of 
the    multitude  ?    what  was    even   a   death  of  disgrace    to 
Socrates,  who  by  entering  a  prison  made  it  cease  to  be  dis- 
graceful?    Cato  was  twice  defeated  in  his  candidature  for 
the  praetorship  and  consulship  :  well,  this  was  the  disgrace 
of  those  honours,  and  not  of  Cato.     No  one  can  be  despised 
by  another  until  he  has  learned  to  despise  himself     The 
man  who  has  learned   to  triumph  over  sorrow  wears  his 
miseries  as  though  they  were   sacred  fillets  upon  his  brow, 
and   nothing   is   so   entirely  admirable   as   a    man    bravely 
wretched.     Such   men   inflict  disgrace  upon  disgrace  itself 
Some   indeed  say  that  death  is  preferable  to  contempt ;  to 
whom  I  reply  that  he  who  is  great  when  he  falls  is  great  in 
his  prostration,  and  is  no  more  an  object  of  contempt  than 
when  men  tread   on   the   ruins  of  sacred  buildings,  which 
men  of  piety  venerate  no  less  than  if  they  stood. 

''  On  my  behalf  therefore,  dearest  mother;  you  have  no 
cause  for  endless  weeping  :  nor  have  you  on  your  own. 
You  cannot  grieve  for  me  on  selfish  grounds,  in  conse- 
quence of  any  personal  loss  to  yourself;  for  you  were  ever 
eminently  unselfish,  and  unlike  other  women  m  all  yo  ir 
dealings  with  your  sons,  and  you  were  always  a  help  and  n 
benefactor  to  them  rather  tiian  they  to  you.  Nor  should 
you  give  way  out  of  a  regret  and  longing  for  me  in  my  ab- 
sence.     We    have    often  previously  been   separated,   and, 


90 


SENECA. 


although  it  is  natural  that  you  should  miss  that  delightful 
conversation,  that  unrestricted  confidence,  that  electrical 
sympathy  of  heart  and  intellect  that  always  existed  between 
us,  and  that  boyish  glee  wherewith  your  visits  always 
affected  me,  yet,  as  you  rise  above  the  common  herd  of 
women  in  virtue,  the  simplicity,  the  purity  of  your  life,  you 
must  abstain  from  feminine  tears  as  you  have  done  from 
all  feminine  follies.  Consider  how  Cornelia,  who  had  lost 
ten  children  by  death,  instead  of  wailing  for  her  dead  sons, 
thanked  fortune  that  had  made  her  sons  Gracchi.  Rutilia 
followed  her  son  Cotta  into  exile  so  dearly  did  she  love 
him,  yet  no  one  saw  her  shed  a  tear  after  his  burial.  She 
had  shown  her  affection  when  it  was  needful,  she  restrained 
her  sorrow  when  it  was  superflous.  Imitate  the  example  of 
these  great  women  as  you  have  imitated  their  virtues.  I 
want  you  not  to  beguile  your  sorrow  by  amusements  or  oc- 
cupations, but  to  co7iqicer  it.  For  you  may  now  return  to 
those  philosophical  studies  in  which  you  once  showed  your- 
self so  apt  a  proficient,  and  which  formerly  my  father 
checked.  They  will  gradually  sustain  and  comfort  you  in 
your  hour  of  grief 

"And  meanwhile  consider  how  many  sources  of  consola- 
tion already  exist  for  you.  My  brothers  are  still  with  you ; 
the  dignity  of  GaUio,  the  leisure  of  Mela,  will  protect  you; 
the  ever-sparkling  mirth  of  my  darHng  Httle  Marcus  will 
cheer  you  up ;  the  training  of  my  little  favourite  Novatilla 
will  be  a  duty  which  will  assuage  your  sorrow.  For  your 
father's  sake,  too,  though  he  is  absent  from  you,  you  must 
moderate  your  lamentations.  Above  all,  your  sister — that 
truly  faithful,  loving,  and  high-souled  lady,  to  whom  I  owe 
so  deep  a  debt  of  affection  for  her  kindness  to  me  from  my 


SENECA    IN  EXILE, 


91 


cradle  until  now, — she  will  yield  you  the  fondest  sympathy 
and  the  truest  consolation. 

*'  But   since  1  know  that    after    all   your    thoughts  will 
constantly  revert  to  me,  and  that  none  of  your  children 
will  be  more  frequently  before  your  mind  than  I, — -not  be- 
cause they  are  less  dear   to  you   than  I,  but  because  it  is 
natural  to  lay  the  hand  most  often  upon  the  spot  which 
pains, — I  will  tell  you  how  you  are  to  think  of  me.     Think 
of  me  as  happy  and  cheerful,  as  though  I  were  in  the  midst 
of  blessings ;    as  indeed   I   am,  while  my  mind,  free  from 
every  care,  has  leisure  for  its  own  pursuits,  and  sometimes 
amuses   itself  with   lighter'  studies,   sometimes,   eager   for 
truth,  soars  upwards  to  the  contemplation  of  its  own  nature, 
and  the   nature   of   the   universe.     It  inquires  first  of  all 
about  the  lands  and  their  situation ;  then  into  the  condi- 
tion of  the  surrounding  sea,  its  ebbings  and  flowings ;  then 
it  carefully  studies  all  this  terror-fraught  interspace  between 
heaven  and  earth,  tumultuous  with  thunders  and  lightnings, 
and  the  blasts  of  winds,  and  the  showers  of  rain,  and  snow 
and  hail ;  then,  having  wandered  through  all  the  lower  re- 
gions, it  bursts  upwards  to  the  highest  things,  and  revels  in 
the    most  lovely    spectacle   of  that  which  is  divine,  and, 
mindful  of  its  own  eternity,  passes  into  all  that  hath  been 
and  all  that  shall  be  throughout  all  ages." 

Such  in  briefest  outline,  and  without  any  of  that  grace 
of  language  with  which  Seneca  has  invested  it,  is  a  sketch 
of  the  little  treatise  which  many  have  regarded  as  among  the 
most  deliglitful  of  Seneca's  works.  It  presents  the  picture 
of  that  grandest  of  all  spectacles— 

**  A  good  man  struggling  with  the  storms  of  fate." 


92 


SENECA. 


So  far  there  was  something  truly  Stoical  in  the  aspect 
of  Seneca^s  exile.  But  was  this  grand  attitude  consistently 
maintained  ?  Did  his  little  raft  of  philosophy  sink  under 
him,  or  did  it  bear  him  safely  over  the  stormy  waves  of  this 
great  sea  of  adversity. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 


senega's  philosophy  gives  way. 


There  are  some  misfortunes  of  which  the  very  essence  con- 
sists in  their  continuance.     They  are  tolerable  so  long  as 
they  are  illuminated  by  a  ray  of  hope.     Seclusion  and  hard- 
ship might  even  come  at  first  with  some  charm  of  novelty 
to  a  philosopher  who,  as  was  not  unfrequent  among  the 
amateur  thinkers  of  his  time,  occasionally  practised  them 
in  the  very  midst  of  wealth  and  friends.     But  as  the  hope- 
less years  rolled  on,  as  the  efforts  of  friends  proved  unavail- 
ing, as  the  loving  son,  and  husband,  and  father  felt  himself 
cut  off  from  the  society  of  those  whom  he  cherished  in  such 
tender  affection,  as  the  dreary  island  seemed  to  him  ever 
more  barbarous  and  more  barren,  while  season  after  season 
added  to  its  horrors  without  revealing  a  single  compensa- 
tion,   Seneca  grew  more  and  more    disconsolate  and  de- 
pressed.    It   seemed   to  be  his  miserable  destiny  to  rust 
away,  useless,  unbefriended,  and  forgotten.     Formed  to  fas- 
cinate society,  here  there  were  none  for  him  to  fascinate; 
gifted  with  an  eloquence  which  could  keep  listening  senates 
hushed,  here  he  found  neither  subject  nor  audience;  and 
his  Hfe  began  to  resemble  a  river  which,  long  before  it  has 
reached   the  sea,  is  lost  in  dreary  marshes  and  choking 
sands. 


94 


SENECA, 


Like  the  brilliant  Ovid,  when  he  was  banished  to  the 
frozen  wilds  of  Tomi,  Seneca  vented  his  anguish  in  plaint- 
ive wailing  and  bitter  verse.  In  his  handful  of  epigrams 
he  finds  nothing  too  severe  for  the  place  of  his  exile.  He 
cries — 

"Spare  thou  thine  exiles,  lightly  o'er  thy  dead, 
Alive,  yet  buried,  be  thy  dust  bespread." 

And  addressing  some  malignant  enemy — 

"Whoe'er  thou  art, — thy  name  shall  I  repeat? — 
Who  o'er  mine  ashes  dar'st  to  press  thy  feet. 
And,  uncontented  with  a  fall  so  dread, 
Draw'st  bloodstained  weapons  on  my  darkened  head, 
Beware  !  for  nature,  pitying,  guards  the  tomb. 
And  ghosts  avenge  th'  invaders  of  their  gloom, 
Hear,  Envy,  hear  the  gods  proclaim  a  truth. 
Which  my  shrill  ghost  repeats  to  move  thy  ruth. 
Wretches  are  sacred  things,— thy  hands  refrain  : 
E'en  sacrilegious  hands  from  tombs  abstain.'* 

The  one  fact  that  seems  to  have  haunted  him  most  was 
that  his  abode  in  Corsica  was  a  living  death. 

But  the  most  complete  picture  of  his  state  of  mind,  and 
the  most  melancholy  memorial  of  his  inconsistency  as  a 
philosopher,  is  to  be  found  in  his  "-  Consolation  to  Polyb- 
ius."  Polybius  was  one  of  those  freedmen  of  the  Em- 
peror whose  bloated  wealth  and  servile  insolence  were  one 
of  the  darkest  and  strangest  phenomena  of  the  time.  Clau- 
dius, more  than  any  of  his  class,  from  the  pecuhar  imbecil- 
ity of  his  character,  was  under  the  powerful  influence  of  this 
class  of  men ;  and  so  dangerous  was  their  power  that  Mes- 
salina  herself  was  forced  to  win  her  ascendency  over  her 
husband's  mind  by  making  these  men  her  supporters,  and 
cultivating  their  favour.  Such  were  ''  the  most  excellent 
Felix,"  the  judge  of  St.  Paul,  and  the  slave  who  became  a 


SENECA'S  PHILOSOPHY  GIVES    WA  K 


95 


husband  to  three  queens, — Narcissus,  in  whose  household 
(which  moved  the  envy  of  the  Emperor)  were  some  of 
those  Christians  to  whom  St.  Paul  sends  greetings  from  the 
Christians  of  Corinth,*— Pallas,  who  never  deigned  to 
speak  to  his  own  slaves,  but  gave  all  his  commands  by 
signs,  and  who  actually  condescended  to  receive  the  thanks 
of  the  Senate,  because  he,  the  descendant  of  Etruscan 
kings,  yet  condescended  to  serve  the  Emperor  and  the 
Commonwealth;  a  preposterous  and  outrageous  compli- 
ment, which  appears  to  have  been  solely  due  to  the  fact  of 
his  name  being  identical  with  that  of  Virgil's  young  hero, 
the  son  of  the  mythic  Evander  1 

Among  this  unworthy  crew  a  certain  Polybius  was  not 
the  least  conspicuous.     He  was  the  director  of  tlie   Em- 
peror's studies,— a  worthy  Alcuin  to  such  a  Charlemagne. 
All  that  we  know  about  him  is  that  he  was  once  the  favour- 
ite of    Messalina,  and  afterwards  her  victim,  and  that  in 
the  day  of  his  eminence  tlie  favour  of  the  Emperor  placed 
him  so  high  that  he  was  often  seen  walking  between  the 
two  consuls.     Such  was  the  man  to  whom,  on  the  occasion 
of  his  brother's   death,  Seneca  addressed  this  treatise  of 
consolation.     It  has  come  down  to  us  as  a  fragment,  and  it 
would  have  been  well  for  Seneca's  fame  if  it  had  not  come 
down  to  us  at  all.     Those  who  are  enthusiastic  for  his  repu- 
tation would  gladly  prove  it  spurious,  but  we  believe  that 
no  candid  reader  can  study  it  without  perceiving  its  gen- 
uineness.    It  is  very  improbable  that  he  ever  intended  it  to 
be  published,  and  whoever  suffered  it  to  see  the  light  was 
the  successful  enemy  of  its  illustrious  author. 

Its  sad  and  abject  tone  confirms  the  inference,  drawn 
from  an  allusion  which  it  contains,  that  it  was  written  to- 

*  Rom.  xvi.  II. 


96 


SENECA. 


wards  the  close  of  the  third  year  of  Seneca's  exile.  He 
apologises  for  its  style  by  saying  that  if  it  betrayed  any 
weakness  of  thought  or  inelegance  of  expression  this  was 
only  what  might  be  ex})ected  from  a  man  who  had  so  long 
been  surrounded  by  the  coarse  and  offensive  patois  of  bar- 
barians. We  need  hardly  follow  him  into  the  ordinary 
topics  of  moral  philosophy  with  which  it  abounds,  or  ex- 
pose the  inconsistency  of  its  tone  with  that  of  Seneca's 
other  writings.  He  consoles  the  freedman  with  the  ''  com- 
mon common-places  "  that  death  is  inevitable  ;  that  grief  is 
useless  ;  that  we  are  all  born  to  sorrow ;  that  the  dead 
would  not  wish  us  to  be  miserable  for  their  sakes.  He  re- 
minds him  that,  owing  to  his  illustrious  position,  all  eyes  are 
-upon  him.  He  bids  him  find  consolation  in  the  studies  in 
which  he  has  always  shown  himself  so  pre-eminent,  and 
lastly  he  refers  him  to  those  shining  examples  of  magnani- 
mous fortitude,  for  the  climax  of  which,  no  doubt,  the 
whole  piece  of  interested  flattery  was  composed.  For  this 
passage,  written  in  a  crescendo  style,  culminates,  as  might 
have  been  expected,  in  the  sublime  spectacle  of  Claudius 
Caesar.  So  far  from  re-enting  his  exile,  he  crawls  in  the 
dust  to  kiss  Caesar's  beneficent  feet  for  saving  him  from 
death;  so  far  from  asserting  his  innocence — which,  perhaps, 
was  impossible,  since  to  do  so  might  have  involved  him  in 
a  fresh  charge  of  treason — he  talks  with  all  the  abjectness 
of  guilt.  He  belauds  the  clemency  of  a  man,  who,  he  tells 
us  elsewhere,  used  to  kill  men  with  as  much  sangfroid  aj  a 
dog  eats  offal;  the  prodigious  powers  of  memory  of  a 
divine  creature  who  used  to  ask  people  to  dxe  and  to  d.n 
ner  whom  he  had  executed  the  day  before,  and  wlio  cvea 
inquired  as  to  the  cause  of  his  wife's  absence  a  few  da-s 
after  having  given  the  order  for  her  execution ;  the  extraor- 


SENECA^S  PIIILOSOrilY  GIVES    WAY. 


97 


dmary  eloquence  of  an  indistinct  stutterer,  whose  head 
shook  and  whose  broad  lips  seemed  to  be  in  contortions 
whenever  he  spoke.*  If  Polybius  feels  sorrowful,  let  him 
turn  his  eyes  to  C^sar  ;  the  splendour  of  that  most  great 
and  radiant  deity  will  so  dazzle  his  eyes  that  all  their  tears 
will  be  diied  up  in  the  admiring  gaze.  Oh  that  the  bright 
occidental  star  which  has  beamed  on  a  world  whicii,  before 
its  rising,  was  plunged  in  darkness  and  deluge,  would  only 
shed  one  little  beam  upon  him  ! 

No  doubt  these  grotesque  and  gorgeous  flatteries,  co.i- 
trasting  strangely  with  the  bitter  language  of  intense  hatred 
and  scathing  contempt  which  Seneca  poured  out  on  the 
memory  of  Claudius  after  his  death,  were  i)enned  with  the 
sole  purpose  of  being  repeated  in  those  divine  and  benig- 
nant ears.  No  doubt  the  superb  freedman,  who  had  been 
allowed  so  rich  a  share  of  the  flatteries  lavished  on  his 
master,  would  take  the  opportunity— if  not  out  of  good- 
nature, at  least  out  of  vanity, — to  retail  them  in  the  im- 
perial ear.  If  the  moment  were  but  favourable,  who  knows 
but  what  at  some  oblivious  and  crapulous  moment  the  Em- 
peror might  be  induced  to  sign  an  order  for  our  philoso- 
pher's recall  ? 

Let  us  not  be  hard  on  him.  Exile  and  wretchedness  are 
stern  trials,  and  it  is  difticult  for  him  to  brave  a  martyr's 
misery  who  has  no  conception  of  a  martyr's  crown.  To  a 
man  who,  like  Seneca,  aimed  at  being  not  only  a  philoso^ 
pher,  but  also  a  man  of  the  world — who  in  this  very  treatise 
criticises  the  Stoics  for  their  ignorance  of  life — there  would 
not  have  seemed  to  be  even  the  shadow  of  disgrace  in  a 
private  effusion  of  insincere  flattery  intended  to  win  the  re- 

*  These  slight   discrepancies  of  description  are  taken  from  counter 
passages  of  Consol,  ad  Polyb.  and  the  Ludus  de  Morte  Ccesaris, 


98 


SEX  EC  A. 


mission  of  a  deplorable  banishment     Or,  if  we  condemn 
Seneca,  let  us  remember  that  Christians,  no  less  than  phuos- 
ophers,  have  attained  a  higher   eminence  only  to  exemplify 
a  more  disastrous  fall.     The  flatteries  of  Seneca  to  Clau- 
dius are  not  more  fulsome,  and  are  infinitely  less  disgrace- 
ful than  those  which  fawning  bishops  exuded  on  his  coun- 
terpart. King  James.     And  if  the  Roman  Stoic  can  gain 
nothing  from  a  comparison  with  the  yet  more  egregious 
moral  failure  of  the  greatest  of  Christian  thinkers-Francis 
Bacon,  Viscount  St.  AlbaiVs-let  us  not  forget  that  a  Sav- 
onarola and  a  Cranmer  recanted  under  torment   and  that 
the  anguish  of  exile  drew  even  from  the  starry  and  unperial 
spirit  of  Dante  Alighleri  words  and  sentiments  for  which  in 
nis  noblest  moments  he  might  have  blushed 


CHAPTER   IX. 


senega's  recall  from  exile. 


Of  the  last  five  years  of  Seneca's  weary  exile  no  trace  has 
been  preserved  to  us.  What  were  his  alternations  of  hope 
and  fear,  of  devotion  to  philosophy  and  of  hankering  after 
the  world  which  he  had  lost,  we  cannot  tell.  Any  hopes 
which  he  may  ha^•e  entertained  respecting  the  intervention 
of  Polybius  in  his  favour  must  have  been  utterly  quenched 
when  he  heard  that  the  freedman,  though  formerly  power- 
ful with  Alessalina,  had  forfeited  his  own  hfe  in  conse- 
quence of  her  macliinations.  But  the  closing  period  of  his 
days  in  Corsica  must  have  brought  him  thrilling  news, 
which  would  save  him  from  falHng  into  absolute  despair. 

For  the  career  of  Messalina  was  drawing  rapidly  to  a 
close.  The  life  of  this  beautiful  princess,  short  as  it  was, 
for  she  died  at  a  very  early  age,  was  enough  to  make  her 
name  a  proverb  of  everlasting  infamy.  For  a  time  she 
appeared  irresistible.  Her  personal  fascination  had  won 
for  her  an  unlimited  sway  over  the  facile  mind  of  Clau- 
dius, and  she  had  either  won  over  by  her  intrigues,  or 
terrified  by  her  pitiless  severity,  the  noblest  of  the  Romans 
and  the  most  powerful  of  the  freedmen.  But  we  see  in 
her  fate,  as  we  see  on  every  page  of  history,  that  vice  ever 
carries  with  it  the  germ  of  its  own  ruin,  and  that  a  retribu- 


SEX  EC  A. 
loo 

tion    which   is  all  the  more  inevitaV.e  from   being  often 
slow  awaits  every  violation  of  the  moral  law. 

rhere  is  something  almost  incredible  n.  the  penal  mfalu- 
ati  n^hich  brought^  about  her  fall.      Onri.g  the  abse^^ce 
of  her  husband  at   Ostia,  she  wedded  m  open  day  wUh  C 
S:iius  the  most  beautiful  and  the  most  F^mismg  o    the 
young  Roman  nobles.     She  had  api-^-tly  persuaded  Ca- 
d  us  that  this  was  merely  a  mock-mamage  mtended  to  a  ert 
.  ome  ominous  auguries  which  threatened  to  destroy      tae 
CsbanTof  Messahnar  but,  whatever  Claudius  may  have     ■ 
ragined,  all  the  rest  of  the  world  knew  the  --age  to  be 
real  and  regarded  it  not  only  as  a  vile  enormity  b.t  a.so 
ata  direct  attempt  to  bring  about  a  usurpation  of  the  mv 

^^?r  b;this  view  of  the  case  ^at  the  freedman  Na. 
cissus  roused  the  inert  spint  and  tim.d  mdignatioa  of  the 

ur  d  Emperor.     While  the  wild  revelry  of  the  wedd.ng 
mjurea         i  ^^^^     ^  well-known 

ceremony  was  at  its  heigm,  v  eum  ,  r     ■     ^ 

physician  of  the  day,  had  in  the  license  of  ^  -  fes  .a^ 
struggled  up  to  the  top  of  a  lofty  tree,  and  when  they  asked 
;::;ihat  he  saw,  he  replied  in  words  wl^ic\  nou.r  me 

,or  3est,  were  full  of  ^^^^^^  2:::,  ^Z 
Storm  approaching  from  Ostia.        lit.  i^^^^  ^ 

ZJl  when  4.  a„  uncertain  ru„,o„,    ».   .  on  ,»™e  - 

ous  msssengers  brought  the  news  that  Uaud.u^^  knew  all 
and  was  coming  to  take  vengeance.      1  ^-^.  ^^'^^^^^  Z^'"  f^ 
thunderbolt  on  the  assembled  gue.ts.      Sdms,   a^  tho  ^ 
nothing  had  happened,  went  to  transact  h.s   V^^^^ 
in  the  Forum;  Messallna  instantly  sending  for  her  ch.ldien 
Octavia  and  Britannicus,  that  she  might  meet  her  husban^ 
with  them  by  her  side,  implored  the  protection  of  Vibid.a 
the  eldest  of  the  chaste  virgins  of  Vesta,  and,  deserted  b, 


SENECA'S  RECALL   EROM  EXILE. 


ici 


all  but  three  companions,  fled  on  foot  and  unpitied,  throu-li 
tlie  whole  breadth  of  the  city,  until  she  reached  the  Ostia  i 
gate,  and   mounted  the   rubbish-cart  of  a  market  gardener 
which   happened  to  be  passing.     But   Narcissus  absorbed 
both  the   looks  and  the   attention  of  the   Emperor  by  the 
proofs   and  the  narrative  of  her  crimes,  and,  getting  rid  of 
the  Vestal  by  promising  her  that  tlie  cause  of  Messalina 
should  be  tried,  he  liurried   Claudius  forward,  first  to  the 
house  of   Silius,  wmich   abounded  with   tlie   proofs   of  his 
guilt,  and  then  to  the  camp  of  the  Prx^torians,  where  swift 
vengeance  was  taken  on  the  whole  band  of  those  who  had 
been  involved   in   Messalina's  crimes.     Slie  meanwhile,  iii 
alternative  paroxysms  of  fury  and  abject  terror,  had  taken 
refuge  in  the  garden  of  Lucullus,  which  slie  had  coveted 
and  made  her   own   by  injustice.      Ckaudius,  who  had  re- 
turned home,  and  had  recovered  some  of  his   facile  equa- 
nimity in  tlie  pleasures  of  the  table,  showed  signs  of  relent- 
ing; but  Narcissus  knew  that  delay  was  death,  and  on  his 
own   autliority  sent  a  tribune   and  centurions  to   despatch 
the  Empress.     They  found  her  prostrate  on  the  ground  at 
the  feet  of  her  mother  Eepida,  with  whom  in  her  prosperity 
slie  had  quarrelled,  but  who  now  came  to  pity  and  console 
her  misery,  and  to  urge  her  to   that  voluntary  death  which 
alone  could  save   her   fro-n   imminent   and  more  cruel  in- 
famy.     B-it  tliC  mind  of  Messalina,  like  tiiat  of  Nero  atler- 
wards,  was  so  corrupted  by  wickedness  that  not  even  such 
poor  nobility  was  left  in  her  as  is  implied  in  the  courage  of 
despair.     While  slie  wasted  the  time  in  tears  and  lamenta- 
tions, a  noise  was  heard  of  battering  at  the  doors,  and  tiie 
tribune   stood   bv  her  in   stern   silence,  the   freedman  with 
slavish  vituperation.      First  she  took  the  dagger  in  her  irre- 
solute   hand,  and   after  she  had    twice  stabbed  herself  in 


\o± 


SEXECA 


vain,  the  tribune  drove  ho:ne  the  fatal  blow,  and  the  co  pse 
of  Messahna,  like  that  of  Jezebel,  lay  -^^'^^""g/^^^^^f^f^ 
in  the  plot  of  ground  of  which  her  cnmes  had  robbed  its 
lawful  owner.  Claudius,  still  lingering  at  h>s  dinner,  was 
informed  that  she  had  perished,  and  neither  asked  a  sing  e 
question  at  the  time,  nor  subsequently  displayed  the 
slightest  sign  of  anger,  of  hatred,  of  pity,  or  of  any  human 

emotion.  .         ,  _^^ 

The  absolute  silence  of   Seneca  respecting  the  woman 
who  had  caused    him  the  bitterest    anguish  and  humilia- 
tion of  his  life  is,  as  we  have  remarked  already,  a  strange 
and  significant  phenomenon.     It  is  clearly  not  due  to  ac^ 
cident  for  the  vices  which  he  is  incessantly  describing  and 
denouncing  would    have  found  in  this    miserable  woman 
their  most   llagrant  illustration,   nor   could    contemporary 
historv  have  furnished  a  more  apposite  example  of  the  yin- 
dicati'on  by  her  fate  of  the  stern  majesty  of  the  moral  law. 
But  yet,  though    Seneca  had  every  reason  to    loathe  her 
character  and  to  detest  her  memory,  though  he  could  not 
have  rendered  to  his  patrons  a  more  welcome  service  than 
by  blackening  her  reputation,  he  never  so  much  as  men- 
tions her  name.     And  this  honourable  silence  gives  us  a 
favourable  insight  into  his  character.     Tor  it  can  only  be 
due  to  his  pitying  sense  of  the  fact  that  even   Messahna, 
bad  as  she  undoubtedly  was,  had  been  judged  already  by 
a  hicrher  Power,  and  had  met  her  diead  punishment  at  the 
hand  of  God.     It  has  been  conjectured,  with  every  appear- 
ance of  probability,  that  the  blackest  of  the  scandals  which 
were  believed  and  circulated  respecting  her  had  their  origin 
in  the  published  autobiograpliy  of  her  deadly  enemy  and 
victorious  successor.     The  many  who  had  had  a  share  in 
MessaUna's  fall  would  be  only  too  glad  to  poison  every 


SEXEC.'VS  RECALL   FROM  EXILE. 


'03 


reminiscence  of  her  life;  and  the  deadly  implacable  hatred 
of  the  worst  woman  who  ever  lived  would  find  peculiar 
gratification  in  scattering  every  conceivable  hue  of  disgrace 
over  the  acts  of  a  rival  whose  young  children  it  was  her 
dearest  object  to  supplant.  That  Seneca  did  not  deign  to 
chronicle  even  of  an  enemy  what  Agrippina  was  not 
ashamed  to  write, — that  he  spared  one  whom  it  was  every 
one's  interest  and  pleasure  to  malign, — that  he  regarded 
her  terrible  fall  as  a  sufficient  claim  to  pity,  as  it  was  a 
sufficient  Nemesis  upon  her  crimes, — is  a  trait  in  the  char- 
acter of  the  philosopher  which  has  hardly  yet  received  the 
credit  which  it  deserves. 


-*■..  ^n    K--r 


AGRIPPIXA,    THE  MOTHER   OE  NERO. 


105 


CHAPTER  X. 

AGRIPPIN'A,  THE  MOTHER  OF  NERO. 

Scarcely  had  the  grave  closed  over  Messahna  when  ti:e 
"court  was  plunged  into  the  mo.;t  violent  factions  about  the 
appointment  of  her  successor.     There  were  three  principal 
candidates  for   the  honour  of  the   aged  Emperor's  hana. 
They  were  his  former  wife,  ^EUa  Petina,  who  had  only  been 
divorced  in  consequence  of  trivial  disagreements,  and  w!io 
was  supported  by  Narcissus  ;  LoUia  Paulina,  so  celebrated 
in  antiquity  for  her  beauty  and  splendour,  and  who  for  a 
short  time  had  been  the  wife  of  Caius ;  and  Agrippina  the 
youn-er  the   daughter  of  the  great   Germanicus,  and  the 
niece'of  Claudius  himself.     Claudius,  indeed,  who  had  been 
as  unlucky  as   Henry  VUI.    himself  in    the  unhappmess 
which  had  attended  his  five  experiments  of  matrimony,  had 
made  tie  strongest  possible  asseverations  that  he  would 
never  again  submit  himself  to  such  a  yoke.     But  he  was  so 
completely  a  tool  in  the  hands  of  his  own  courtiers  that  no 
one  attached  tlie  slightest  importance  to  anything  which  he 

had  said. 

The  marriage  of  an  uncle  with  his  own  niece  was  con- 
sidered a  violation  of  natural  laws,  and  was  regarded  with 
no  less  horror  among  the  Romans  than  it  would  be  among 
ourselves.     But  Agrippina,  by  the  use  of  means  the  most 


*» 


unscrupulous,  prevailed  over  all  her  rivals,  and  managed 
her  interests  with  such  consummate  skill  that,  before  many 
months  had  elapsed,  she  had  become  the  spouse  of  Clau- 
dius and  the  Empress  of  Rome. 

With  this  princess  the  destinies  of  Seneca  were  most 
closely  intertwined,  and  it  will  enable  us  tlie  better  to  under- 
stand his  position,  and  his  writings,  if  we  remember  that  all 
history  discloses  to  us  no  phenomenon  more  portentous  and 
terrible  than  that  presented  to  us  in  the  character  of  Agrip- 
]:>ina,  the  mother  of  Nero. 

Of  the  virtues  of  her  great  parents  she,  like  their  other 
children,  had  inherited  not  one ;  and  she  had  exai^irerated 
their  family  tendencies  into  passions  which  urged  her  into 
every  form  of  crime.  Her  career  from  the  very  cradle  had 
been  a  career  of  wickedness,  nor  had  any  one  of  the  many 
fierce  vicissitudes  of  her  life  called  forth  in  her  a  single 
noble  or  amiable  trait.  Born  at  Oppidum  Ubiorum  (after- 
wards called  in  her  honour  Colonia  Agrippina,  and  still  re- 
taining its  name  in  the  form  Cologne),  she  lost  her  father  at 
the  age  of  three,  and  her  motlier  (by  banishment)  at  the  age 
of  twelve.  She  was  educated  with  bad  sisters,  with  a  wild 
and  wicked  brother,  and  under  a  grandmother  whom  she 
detested.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  she  was  married  to  Cnoeus 
Domitius  Ahenobarbus,  one  of  the  mo-t  worthless  and  ill- 
reputed  of  the  young  Roman  nobles  of  his  day.  The  gos- 
siping biographies  of  the  time  still  retain  some  anecdotes  of 
his  cruelty  and  selfishness.  They  tell  us  how  he  once, 
without  the  slightest  remorse,  ran  over  a  poor  boy  who  was 
]):aying  on  the  Appian  Road  ;  how  on  another  occasion  he 
knocked  out  the  eye  of  a  Roman  kiught  who  liad  given  him 
a  hasty  answer  ;  and  how,  when  his  friend  congratulated 
him  on  the  birth  of  his  son  (the  young  Claudius  Domitius, 


io6 


SENECA . 


afterwards  the  Emperor  Nero),  he  "^^^^^^^ 
from  peoole  hke  himself  and  Agnppina  could  only  be  born 
some  monster  destined  for  the  public  rum. 

Domitius  was  forty  years  old  when  he  married  Agnppma, 
and  the  young  Nero  was  not  born  till -ne  years  after.^rds. 
Whatever  there  was  of  possible  affect,on  n.    the  tigress 
nature  of  Agrippina  was  now  absorbed  m  the  person  of  her 
child      For  that  child,  from  its  cradle  to  her  own  death  by 
his  means,  she  toiled  and  sinned.     The  fury  of  her   own 
ambition,  inextricably  linked  with  the  -;^-°;^trollable  fierce 
ness  of  her  love  for  this  only  son,  h.enceforth  directed  ever> 
action  of  her  life.     Destir.y  had  made  her  the  sister  of  one 
Emperor  ;  intrigue  elevated  her  into  the  wile  of  another ; 
her  own  crimes  made  her  tlie  mother  of  a  third.     And  at 
first  sight  her  career  might  have  seemed  unusually  success- 
ful for  while  still  in  the  prime  of  life  she  was  wicldmg,  first 
in  the  name  of  her  husband,  and  then  in  that  of  her  son,  no 
mean    share    in  the  absolute   government  of  the    Roman 
world      But    meanwhile   that    same    unerring    retribution, 
whose  stealthy  footsteps  in  the  rear  of  the  truimphant  crimi- 
nal we  can  track  through  page  after  page   of  history  was 
stealing  nearer  and  nearer  to  her  with  uplifted  hand.     ^^  hen 
she  had  reached  tlie  dizzy  pinnacle  of  gratified  love  and 
pride  to  which  she  had  waded  through  so  many  a  deed  o 
sin  and  blood,  she  was  struck  down  into  terrible  ruin  and 
violent  shameful  death,  by  the  hand  of  that  very  son  for 
whose  sake  she  had  so  often  violated  the  laws  of  virtue  and 
ime-rity,  and  spurned  so  often  the  pure  and  tender  obliga- 
tions which  even  the  heathen  had  been  taught  by  the  voice 
of  God  within  their  conscience  to  recognize  and  to  adore. 

Intending  that  her  son  should  marry  Octavia,  the  daugh- 
ter of  Claudius,  her  first  step  was  to  drive  to  death  Silanus. 


AGRIPPIXA,    THE  MOTHER   Of  XEKO. 


lo- 


a  30ung  nobleman  to  whom  Octavia  had  already  been  be- 
trothed. Her  next  care  was  to  get  rid  of  all  rivals  possible 
or  actual.  Among  the  former  were  the  beautiful  Calpurnia 
and  her  own  sister-in-law,  Domitia  Lepida.  Among  the 
latter  was  the  wealthy  LoUia  Paulina,  against  whom  she 
trumped  up  an  accusation  of  sorcery  and  treason,  upon 
v/  licii  her  wealth  was  confiscated,  but  her  life  spared  ])y  the 
i^mperor,  who  banished  her  from  Italy.  This  Jialf-ven- 
reance  was  not  enough  for  the  motiier  of  Nero.  Like  the 
daughter  of  Herodias  in  sacred  liistory,  she  despatclied  a 
tribune  with  orders  to  bring  her  the  iiead  of  her  enemy ; 
and  when  it  was  brought  to  her,  and  she  found  a  dilficulty 
in  recognizing  those  withered  and  ghastly  features  of  aouce- 
celebrated  beauty,  she  is  said  with  lier  own  hand  to  liave 
lifted  one  of  the  lips,  and  to  have  satisfied  lierself  that  this 
was  indeed  the  iiead  of  LoUia.  To  such  iiorrors  may  a 
woman  sink,  when  she  has  abandoned  the  love  of  God;_ 
and  a  fair  face  may  hide  a  soul  ••  leprous  as  sin  itself  "\ 
Well  may  Adolf  Stahr  observe  that  Sliakespeare's  Lady 
Macbeth  and  luisband-murdering  (^ertrude  are  mere  child- 
ren by  the  side  of  this  awlul  giant-sliape  of  steely  feminine 

cruelty. 

Such  was  tlie  princess  who,  in  the  year  A.U.  49,  recalled 
Seneca  from  exile.*  She  saw  that  her  cruelties  were  in- 
spiring horror  even  into  a  city  that  liad  long  been  accus- 
tomed to  blood,  and  Tacitus  expressly  tells  us  that  she 
hoped  to  counterbalance  this  feeling  by  a  stroke  of  popu- 
larity in  recalling  from  tlie  waste  solitudes  of  Corsica  the 
favourite  philosopher  and  most  popular  author  ot  the 
Roman  world.      Nor  was  she  content  with  tins  public  proof 

*  Gallio  was  Proconsul  of  Achaia  about  A.D.  53,  v-hcn  St.  Paul  was 
brought  before  his  tribunal .  Very  possibly  his  e'.evation  inay  have  been 
due  to  the  restoration  of  Seneca's  influence, 


loS 


SEX  EC  A, 


of  her  belief  n\  liis  innocence  of  the  crime  which  had  been 
laid  to  his   charge,  for  she  further  procured  for  him   the 
Pra^torship,  and  appointed  liim  tutor  and  governor  to  her 
youthful  son.     Even  in  takii.g  this  step  she  did  not  forget 
her  ambitious  views  ;  for  she  knew  that  Seneca  cherished  a 
secret  indignation   against  Claudius,  and  that  Nero  could 
have  no  more  wise   adviser  in  taking   steps  to  secure  the 
fruition  of  his  nnperial  hopes.     It  might  perhaps  have  been 
better  for  Seneca's  happiness  if  he  had  never  left  Corsica, 
or  set  his  foot  again  in  that  Circean  and  bloodstained  court. 
Let  it,  however,  be  added  in  his  exculpation,  that  another 
man  of  undoubted  and  scrupulous  honesty,— Afranius  Bur- 
rus— a  man  of  the  old,  blunt,  faithful  t>  pe  of  Roman  man- 
liness, whom  Agrippina  had  raised  to  the  Prefectship  of  the 
Praetorian  cohorts,  was  willing  to  share  his  danger  and  his 
responsibilities.     Yet  he  must  have  lived  from  the  first  in 
the  very  atmospliere  of  base   and  criminal  intrigues.      He 
must   have    formed   an  importgint  member   of  Agrippina's 
party,  which  was  in  daily  and  deadly  enmity  against  die 
party  of  Narcissus.     He  must  have  watched  the  incessant 
artifices  by  which  Agrippina  secured   the   adoption  of  her 
son  Nero  by  an  Emperor  whose  own  son  Britannicus  was 
but  three  years  his  junior.     He  must  have  seen  Nero  ah 
wavs  honoured,  promoted,  paraded  before  the  eyes  of  the 
populace  as  tlie  future  hoi^e  of  Rome,  whilst   Britannicus, 
like  the  young  Edward  V.  under  the  regency  of  his  uncle, 
was  neglected,  surrounded  with  spies,  kept  as  much  as  pos- 
sible out  of  his  father's  sight,  and  so  comple':ely  tlirust  into 
tlie  bac'vground  from  all  observation  that  the  pojmlace  be- 
gan seriously  to  doubt  whether  he  were  aiive  or  dead.     He 
must  have  seen  Agrippina,  who  had  now  received  the  un- 
precedented honour  of  the  title  ••  Augusta"  m  her  Ufetime. 


AGRIPPINA,    THE  MOTHER   OF  .VERO, 


109 


acting  with  such  haughty  insolence  that  there  could  be  litde 
doubt  as  to  her  ulterior  designs  upon  the  throne.  He  must 
have  known  that  his  splendid  intellect  was  practically  at  the 
service  of  a  woman  in  whom  avarice,  haughtiness,  violence, 
treacherv,  and  every  form  of  unscrupulous  criminality  had 
reached  a  point  hitherto  unmatched  even  in  a  corrupt  and 
pagan  world.  From  this  time  forth  the  biography  of  Sene- 
ca must  assume  the  form  of  an  apology  rather  than   of  a 

panegyric. 

The  Emperor  could  not  but  feel  that  in   Agrippina  he 
had  chosen  a  wife  even  more  intolerable   than   Me.salma 
herself.      Messalina  had  not  interfered  with  the  friends  he 
loved,  had  not  robbed  him  of  the  insignia  of  empire,  had 
not  filled  his  palace  with   a  hard   and  unfeminine  tyranny, 
and  had  of  course  watclied  with  a  mother's  interest  over  the 
lives  and  fortunes  of  his  children.     Narcissus  would  not  be 
likely  to  leave  him  long  in  ignorance  tliat,  in  addition  to 
her  other  i)lots  and  crimes,  Agrippina  had  been  as  little  true 
to  him  as  his  former  unhappy  wife.     The  information  sank 
deep  into  his  lieart,  and  he  was  heard  to  mutter  tliat  it  had 
beek  his  destiny  all  along  first  to  bear,  and  then  to  avenge, 
the  enormities  of  his  wives.     Agrippina,  whose  spies  filled 
the  palace,  could  not  long  remain  uninformed  of  so  sigmfi- 
cant   a   speech  ;    and  she   probably  saw  with   an   instinct 
quickened  by  the  awful  terrors  of  her  own  guilty  conscience 
that  the  Emperor  showed  distinct  signs  of  his  regret  for  hav- 
inc^  married  his  niece,  and  adopted  her  child  to  the  preju- 
dice if  not  to  the  ruin,  of  his  own  young  son.     It  she  wanted 
to  reach  the  goal  which  she  had  held  so  long  in  view  no 
time  was  to  be  lost.     Let  us  hope  that  Seneca  and  Burrus 
were  at  least  ignorant  of  the  means  which  she  took  to  etfect 
her  purpose. 


I  lO 


SENECA. 


Fortune  favoured  iier.     The  dreaded  xVarcissus,  the  most 
formidable  obstacle  to  her  murderous  plans,  was  seized  with 
an  attack  of  the  gout.     Agrippina  managed  that  liis  physician 
should  recommend  him  the  waters  of  Sinuessa  in  Campania 
by  way  of  cure.     He  was  thus  got  out  of  the  way,  and  she 
proceeded  at  once  to  her  work  of  blood.      Phitrusting  the 
secret    to    Halotus,   the  Emperor's  prcegustator — the  slave 
whose  ofiice  it  was  to  protect  huii  from  poison  by  tasting 
every  dish  before  him — and  to  his  physician,  Xenophon  of 
Cos,  she  consulted  Locusta,  the  Mrs.  Turner  of  the  period 
of  this  classical  King  James,  as  to  the  poison  best  suited  to 
her  purpose.     Locusta  was   mistress  of  her  art,  in  which 
long    practice    had   given  her  a  consummate    skill.     The 
poison  must  not  be  too  rapid,  lest  it  should  cause  suspicion  ; 
nor  too  slow,  lest  it  should  give  the  Emperor  time  to  con- 
sult for  the  interests  of  his  son  Britannicus ;  but  it  was  to 
be  one  which  should  disturb  his  intellect  without  causing  im- 
mediate death.      Claudius  was   a  glutton,  and  the   poison 
was  given  him  with  all  the  more  ease  because  it  was  mixed 
with  a  dish  of  mushrooms,  of  which  he  was   extravagantly 
fond.     Agrippina  herself  handed  him   the   choicest   mush- 
room in  the  dish-,  and  the  poison  at  once  reduced  him  to 
silence.     As  was  too  frequently  the  case,  Claudius  was  in- 
toxicated at  the  time,  and  was  carried   off  to  his  bed  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.      A  violent  colic  ensued,  and  it  was 
feared   that    this,  with   a  quantity  of  wine  which  he   had 
drunk,  would  render  the  poison  innocuous.     But  Agrippina 
had  gone  too  far  for  retreat,  and  Xenophon,  who  knew  that 
great  crimes  if  frustrated  are  perilous,  if  successful  are  re- 
warded, came  to  her  assistance.     Under  pretence  of  caus- 
ing him  to  vomit,  he  tickled  the  throat  of  the  Emperor  with 


AGRirPINA,    THE  MOTHER    OF  XERO. 


Ill 


a  feather  smeared  with  a  swift  and  deadly  poison.     It  did 
its  v>-ork,  and  before  morning  the  Caesar  was  a  corpse,* 

As  has  been  the  case  not  unfrequently  in  history,  from  the 
times  of  Tarquinius  Priscus  to  those  of  Charles    II.,  the 
death  was  concealed  until  everything  had  been  prepared  for 
the  production  of  a  successor.     The  palace  was  carefully 
watched  ;  no  one  was  even  admitted  into  it  except  Agrip- 
pinas  most  trusty  partisans.     The  body  was  propped  up 
with  pillows;  actors  were  sent  for  "  by  his  own  desire"  to 
afford  it  some  amusement ;  and  priests   and  consuls  were 
bidden  to  ofter  up  their  vows  for  the  life  of  the  dead.     Giv- 
in-  out  that  the  Emperor  was  getting  better,  Agrippina  took 
ca^re  to  keep  Britannicus  and  his  two  sisters,  Octavia  and 
Antonia,  under  her  own  immediate  eye.     As  though  over- 
whelmed with  sorrow  she  wept,  and   embraced  them,  and 
above  all  kept  Britannicus  by  her  side,  kissing  him  with  the 
exclamation  ^' that  he  was  the  very  image  of  his  father," 

*  There  is  usually  found  amonc^^  the  writin^^s  of  Seneca  a   most  re- 
..arkable  burlesque  called  Lu.ins  de  Morte  C.saris.     As  to  Us  author- 
ship opinions  will  always  vary,  but  U  is  a  work   of  such    undoubted 
<J.us    so   interesting,   and   so   unu^ue   in   -character    that    I    have 
Thought  it  necessary  to  give  in  an  Appendix  a  bnef  sketch  of  it.     rgu- 
ment^     We  may  at  least  /../.  that  this  satire,  which  oversows  with  the 
deTdiiest  contempt  of  Claudius,  is  not  from  the  same  pen  which  ..ote 
foTNero  his  funeral  oration.      It  has,  however,  been  supposed  (withou 
uffLnt  grounds)  to  be  the  lost  ^  A^onoXonvvr.o^^M.  Senecai 
id  to  h:^-e  written  on  the  apotheosis  of  Claudius.      The  -'T  "-e  .  a 
bitter  satire.     It  imagines  the  Emperor  transformed    not  i    o  a  Go  1, 
but  into  a  gourd-one  of  those  ^M>loated  gourds  1^^-^^;;  ^      e  L 
led  bellies  before  the  doors  of  the  Roman  peasants.  Fhc  Senate  dc 

creed  his  di.^nit.;   Seneca    translated  it  into  pu.pUnty      T M--le 
Zn    EmP   V    60U.      The   Lucius  begins  by   spattering  mud   on   the 
horru  I^mp.  v.  uuiy.  n  shower  of  poetic  roses 

memory  of  the  divine  Claudius  ;  it  end.  with  a  shower         p 

over  the  glory  of  the  diviner  Nero  ! 


112 


SEX  EC  A. 


and  taking  care  that  he  should  on  no  account  leave  her 
room.  So  the  day  wore  on  till  it  was  the  hour  which  the 
Chaldxans  declared  would  be  the  only  lucky  hour  in  that 
unlucky  October  day. 

Noon  came ;  the  palace  doors  were  suddenly  thrown 
open  .  and  Nero  with  Burrus  at  his  side  went  out  to  the 
Praetorian  cohort  which  was  on  guard.  By  the  order  of 
their  commandant,  tliey  received  him  with  cheers.  A  few 
onlv  hesitated,  looking  lou.icl  them  and  askin;^  '*  Where  was 
Britannicus  ?"  Since,  however,  lie  was  no!;  to  be  seen,  and 
no  o::e  stirred  in  his  favour,  tie/  followed  the  multitude. 
Nero  was  carried  in  triuni|)h  to  t'le  camn,  made  the  soldiers 
a  short  speech,  and  promised  to  eacii  n  ai  of  them  a  splen- 
did donative.  He  was  at  once  saluted  Emperor.  The 
Senate  followed  the  choice  ot  the  soldiers,  and  the  provinces 
made  no  demur.  Divine  honors  were  decreed  to  the  mur- 
dered man,  and  preparations  made  for  a  funeral  which  was 
to  rival  in  its  splendour  tlie  one  wiiich  Livia  had  ordered 
for  Augustus.  ]]ut  the  will — which  beyond  all  doubt  had 
provided  for  the  succession  of  Britannicus — was  quietly 
done  away  with,  and  its  exact  pro\  isions  were  never  known. 

And  on  the  Rrst  evening  of  his  imperial  power,  Nero,  well 
aware  to  w'nom  he  owed  his  throne,  gave  to  tlie  sentinel 
who  came  to  ask  him  the  pass  for  the  night  the  grateful  and 
significant  w^atchword  of  "Optima  Mater," — "the  best  of 
mothers  !" 


iX. 


IV, 


CHAPTER  XI. 

NERO  AND  HIS  TUTOR. 

The  impeial  youth,  whose   destinies   are  now  inextricably 
mingled  with   those  of  Seneca,  was   accompanied  to  the 
throne  by  the  acclamations  ol'  the  people.     Wearied  by  the 
astuteness  of  an  Augustus,  the  sullen  wrath  of  a  Tiberius, 
the  mad  ferocity  of  a  Ca^is,  the  senile   ir.sensibihty  ot  a 
Claudius,  they  could  not  but  welcome  tlie  succession  ot  a 
brisht  and  beautiful  youth,  whose  fair  hair  floated  over  his 
sho^ilders,  and  whose  features  displayed  the  hnest  type  ot 
Roman  beauty.     There  was  nothing  in  his  antecedents  to 
give  a  sinister  augury  to  liis   future   development,  and  all 
classes   alike  dreamt  of  the  advent  of  a  golden   age.     W  e 
can  understand    their  feelings  if  we  compare  them  with 
those  of  our  own  countrymen  when  the  sullen   tyranny  ot 
Henry  VHI.  was  followed  by  the  youtliful  virtue  and  gen- 
tleness of  Edward  VI.     Hai.py  would  it  have  been  lor  Nero 
if  his  reign,  like  that  of   lidward,    could    liave    been   cut 
short  before  the   thick  night  of  many  crimes  had  settled 
down   upon   the   promise  of  its  dawn.     For  the  first  five 
years  of  Nero's  reign-the  famous    Quim/ucn;uu.i  -\eronu 
-were  fondly  regarded  by  the  Romans  as  a  period  of  al- 
most ideal  happiness.     In  reality,  it  was  Seneca  who  was 
ruling  m  Nero's  name.     Even  so  exdlent  an  Emperor  a. 


114 


SEXECA. 


Trajan  is  said  to  have  admitted  '-that  no  other  prince  had 
nearly  equalled  the  praise  of  that  period."  It  is  indeed 
probable  that  those  years  a}>peared  to  shine  with  an  exag- 
<  erated  splendour  from  the  intense  gloom  which  succeeded 
them;  yet  we  can  see  in  them  abundant  circumstances 
which  were  quite  sufficient  to  inspire  an  enthusiasm  of  hope 
and  joy.  Tlie  young  Nero  was  at  hrst  modest  and  docile. 
Hisopening  speeches,  written  with  all  the  beauty  of  thought 
and  language  which  betrayed  the  s/yie  of  Seneca  no  less 
than  his  habitual  sentiments,  were  full  of  glowing  promises. 
All  those  things  which  had  been  felt  to  be  injurious  or  op- 
pressive he  promised  to  eschew.  He  would  not,  lie  said, 
reserve  to  himself,  as  Claudius  had  done,  the  irresponsible 
decision  in  all  matters  of  business;  no  office  or  dignity 
should  be  won  from  him  by  liattery  or  purchased  by  bribes; 
he  would  not  confuse  his  own  personal  interests  with  those 
of  the  commonwealth;  he  would  respect  the  ancient  preroga- 
tives of  the  Senate ;  he  would  confine  his  own  immediate 
attention  to  the  provinces  and  the  army. 

Nor  were  such  promises  falsified  by  his  immediate  con- 
duct. The  odious  informers  who  had  llourislied  in  previ- 
ous reigns  were  frowned  upon  and  punished.  Offices  of 
public  dignity  were  relieved  from  unjust  and  oppressive 
burdens.  Nero  prudently  declined  the  gold  and  silver  stat- 
ues and  other  extravagant  honours  which  were  offered  to 
him  by  the  corrupt  and  servile  Senate,  but  he  treated  that 
body,  which,  fallen  as  it  was,  continued  still  to  be  the  main 
representative  of  constitutional  authority,  with  favour  and 
respect.  Nobles  and  officials  begun  to  breathe  more  freely, 
and  the  general  sense  of  an  intolerable  tyranny  was  percep- 
tibly relaxed.  Severity  was  reserved  for  notorious  crimi- 
nals,   and  was   only   inllicted  in   a  regular   and    authorized 


NERO   /iXD   I  IIS    Ti'TOK. 


115 


manner,  when  no  one  could  donbt  that  it  had  been  deserved. 
Above    all,    Se.ieca  had  disseminated  an  anecdote   about 
his     young     pupil    which     tended    more    than    any    otlier 
circumstance  to  his  wide  spread  popularity.     England  has 
remembered  with  gratitude  and  admiration  the  tearful  reluct- 
ance of  her   youthful    Edward  to  sign    the   death-warrant 
of  Joan   Boucher;  Rome,   accustomed  to  a  cruel  indiffer- 
ence to  human  life,  regarded  with  something  like  transport 
the  sense  of  pity  which  had   made  Nero,   when  asked  to 
affix  his  signature  to  an  order  for  execution,  exclaim,  ''  How 
I  wish  that  I  dU  not  know  how  to  write!'' 

It  is  admitted  that  no  small  share  of  the  happiness  ol 
this  period  was  due  to  the  firmness  of  the  honest  Burrus, 
and  the  wise,  high-minded  precepts  of  Seneca.     They  de- 
serve the  amplest  gratitude  and  credit  for  this  happy  inter- 
recrnum,  for  they  had  no  easy  task  to  perform.     Besides 
the  difficulties  which    arose  from   the   base   and   Involous 
character  of  their  pupil,  besides  the  infinite  delicacy  wmcn 
was  requisite  for  the  restraint  of  a  youtli  wlio  was  absolute 
master    of  such  gigantic  destinies,   they  had  the  tas.  o 
curbm-  the  wild  and  imperious  ambition  of  Agnppma,  and 
of  defeating  the   incessant  intrigues  of  her  many   powertul 
dependents.     Agrippina  had   no  doubt  persuaded  liersel 
that  her  crimes  had  bee^n  mainly  committed  in  the  interest 
of  her  son  ;  but  her  conduct  showed  diat  she  wislied  hun 
to  be  a  mere  instrument  in  her  hands.     She  wished  to  gov- 
ern him,  and  had  probably  calculated   on  doing  so  by  the 
assistance  of  Seneca,  just  as  our  own  Queen  Carohne  com- 
pletely managed  George   II.   with  the  aid   ot   b."    kobe.t 
Walpole.     She  rode  in  a  Utter  with  him ;  without  ffis  knowl 
ed-e  s^->e  ordered  the  poisomng  of  M.  Silanus,   a  brot.ier  o 
her  former  victim,  she  goaded  Narcissus  to  death,  against 


> 


ii6 


SEX  EC  A, 


his  will  •  ihroi:!zh  l^.er  influence  the  Senate  was  sometimes 
assembled  in  the  palace,  arid  she  took  no  pains  to  conceal 
from  the  senators  that  she  v/as  herself  seated  behind  a  cur- 
tain where  she  could  hear  every  word  of  their  deliberations; 
— nav,  on  one  occas'on,  wlien  Nero  was  about  to  cfive  audi- 
ence  to  an  important  Armenian  legation,  she  had  the  audac- 
ity to  enter  the  audience-chamber,  and  advance  to  take 
her  seat  by  the  side  of  tlie  Emperor.  Every  one  else  was 
struck  dumb  with  amazement,  and  even  terror,  at  a  pro- 
ceeding so  unusual ;  but  Seneca,  with  ready  and  admirable 
tact,  suirirested  to  Nero  that  he  should  rise  and  meet  his 
mother,  thus  obviating  a  public  scandal  under  the  pretext 
of  fihal  affection. 

But  Seneca  from  the  very  first  had  been  guilty  of  a  fatal 
error  in  the  education  of  his  pupil.  He  had  governed  him 
tiiroughout  on  the  ruinous  principle  of  cojicessioi.  Nero 
was  not  devoid  of  talent ;  he  had  a  decided  turn  for  Latin 
versification,  and  the  few  lines  of  his  composition  w^hich 
have  come  down  to  us,  biza?'re  and  effected  as  they  are,  yet 
display  a  certain  sense  of  melody  and  power  of  language. 
But  his  vivid  imagination  w^as  accompained  by  a  want  of 
purpose;  and  Seneca,  instead  of  trying  to  train  him  in  hab- 
its of  serious  attention  and  sustained  thought,  suffered  him 
to  waste  his  best  efforts  in  pursuits  and  amusements  which 
were  considered  partly  frivolous  and  partly  disreputable, 
such  as  singing,  j^ainting,  dancing,  and  driving.  Seneca 
might  have  argued  that  there  was,  at  any  rate,  no  great 
harm  in  such  employments,  and  that  tiiey  i)robably  kept 
Nero  out  of  wor^e  mischief  But  we  respect  Nero  the  less 
for  his  indifferent  singing  aiKl  harp-twanging  just  as  we 
respect  Louis  XVL  less  for  making  very  poor  locks ;  and,  if 
Seneca  had  adopted  a  loftier  tone  with  his  pupil  from  the 


NERO  AND  HIS    TUTOR, 


117 


first,  Rome  might  have  been  spared  tie  disgraceful  folly  of 
Nero's  subsequent  buffooneries  in  the  cities  of  Greece  and 
the  theatres  of  Rome.     We   may  lay  it  down  as  an  invari- 
able axiom  in  all  high  education,  that  it  is  n:vcr  sensible  to 
permit  what  is  bad  for  the   supposed  sake  of  preventing 
v.hat  is  worse.     Seneca  very  probably  persuaded   himself 
that  with  a  mind  like  Nero's— the  innate  worthlessness  of 
which  he  must  early  have  recognised— success  of  any  hig^ 
description  would  be  sinfi^ly  impossible.      But  this  did  net 
absolve  him   from    attemp.ting    the  only  noble   means   b/ 
which  success  could,   under  any  circumstances,  be  attain- 
able     Let  us,  however,  remember  that  his  concessions  to 
iris  pupil  were   mainly  in  matters  which  he  regarded  as  in- 
different-or,  at  the  worst,  as  discreditable-rather  than  as 
c-minal  •    and  that  his    mistake  probably  aro-e  trom   an 
error  in    judgment  far  more   tlian  from  any   deficiency  m 

moral  character. 

Vet  it   is  dear  that,    even  intellectually,   Nero  was   the 
worse  for  this  laxity  of  training.     We   have   already  .een 
that   in   his  maiden-speech   before  the   Senate,  every  one 
reco<niized  the  hand  of  Seneca,  and  many  observed  with  a 
si.dr^hat  this  was  the  hrst  occasion  on  which  an    iMuperor 
h^dnot   been   able,  at  least  to   all  appearance,  to  address 
the  Senate  in   his  own  words  and  with   his  own  t^iougnts. 
1  iberius,  as   an    orator,  had  been   digm^ed  and  forcU  e^; 
Claudius  had   been   learned   and   polished;    even    he    k- 
tn.bed  reason  of  Caligula  had  not  been  wannng  m  a  capac- 
ity   for  delivering    forcible   and  eloquent  harangues     luu 
Wsvouth  had  bee.   frittered  away  m  paltry  and  mde- 
..eros}ouL  neither   time 

corns  accompllshment^,  v,hxh  liaci   le.i 


nor  iiclinatioi  for  weightier  ad  nobler  puisa.u 

The  ftme  of  Seneca"  l,a=,  no  doubt,  suffered  gnev.onsly 


ii8 


SEXECA. 


from  the  subsequent  infamy  of  liis  pupil  ;  and  it  is  obvious 
that  the  dish'ke  of  Tacitus  to  his  memory  is  due  to  his  con- 
nexion   w:th  Nero.      Now,  even   though   the  tutor's  system 
had  not   been   so  wise  as,  when  judged   by  an  inflexible 
standard,  it  might   haye   been,  it  is  yet   clearly   unjust  to 
make  him   responsible  for  the  depravity  of  his  pupil;  and 
it  must  be  remembered,  to  Seneca's  eternal  honour,  that  the 
evidence  of  facts,   the   testimony   of  contemporaries,   and 
e\  en  t!^e  grudging  admission   of  •Tacitus  himself,    estab- 
hsl  es  in  his  favour  that  whatever  wisdom  and  moderation 
c/.arac;crized   tiie  earlier  years  of  Nero's  reign  were  due  to 
his  coun:ols;    diat  he  enjoyed  the  cordial  esteem  of  the 
virtuous  Ilurrus  ;    that  he  helped  to  check  the  sanguinary 
audacities  of   Agrlppina  ;     that  the  writings  which  he  ad^ 
dressed  to  Nero,  aiul  the  speeches  wliich  he  wrote  for  him, 
breatiiCd  the  loftiest  counsels  ;  and  that  it  was  not  until  lie 
was  wholly  removed  from  ])ower  arid  influence  that  Nero, 
under   the    fierce  impulses  of   despotic    power,   developed 
those    atrocious  tendencies  of  which  the    seeds   had  lon^ 
been  latent  in  liis  disposition.     An  ancient  writer  records 
tlie  tradition   that    Seneca  very   early   observed  in    Nero  a 
savagery  of  disposition  wiiicii  he  could  not  wholly  eradicate  ; 
and  tliat  to  his  iiitimate  friends  he  used  to  observe  that, 
*•  wiien  once  tlie  lion  tasted  human  blood,  his  innate  cruelty 
would  return." 

But  v.-hile  we  give  Seneca  tliis  credit,  and  allow  tliat  Iiis 
intentions  were  ihoroughly  upriglit,  we  cannot  but  i,ni)ugn 
\\\?.juil-mc}it\ox  having  thus  deliberately  adopted  ti!e  ino.al- 
ity  of  expedience  ;  and  we  bellc-e  that  to  this  cxw-t,  more 
than  to  any  other,  was  due  ih.e  e.vte.it  of  his  failure  and  the 
misery  of  his  life.  We  may,  i.ideed,  be  permitted  to  doubt 
whether  Nero  himself— a  vain  and   loose  youth,  the  son  of 


NERO  AXD   JUS    TUTOR. 


"9 


bad  parents,  and  heir  to  boundless  ecpectatioiis  .vould, 
under  any  circumstances,  have  grown  up  much  bettc'  t  :aa 
he  did  :  but  it  is  clear  that  Seneca  might  Lave  beui  he. 
in  infmitelv  higher  honour  but  for  the  share  which  hehal 
in  his  education.  Had  Seneca  been  as  firm  and  wi.e  as 
Socrates  Nero  in  all  probability  would  not  have  been 
mS   v;rse   than   Alcibiades.      If  the  tutor  had  set  before 

n    pupil  no  ideal  but  the  very  highest,  if  he  had  u.fleub  1. 

loosed  to  the  extent  of  his  ability  every  tendency  wh.ch 
'ad  st  J>L>rab!e  and  wrong,  he  might.W./-/,    ave  been 

ewarded  by  success,  and  have  earned  the  uulehble  g.at>- 
r   IrnaLind;    and  if  I'e  had  failed  he  wo.U    at  ^^ 

Have  failed  nobly,  and  ^-e  ca  r        -.  ^^^J^^ 

andhonouraTeretnement--.^^^ 

of  Ins  unpena  pup        "^^    ^^  ,,,,  .ee.  inGni.elv 

and  lost  hrs  hfe  ur  the  -"^';    ;  j,-^.^.,,  Hoa.e.  nught 

better  both  for  1^~\  ^  ^     ^  ^^  ,;,  ,,,,  live  in  si,..- 
have  taught  bun  that      it  is  ^^^ 

At  any  rate  be  might  have  ^^^^  .nu.talway.. 
,on  that  an  e^-tton  ouncLd  o    co.  ^.  ^^  ^^  ^^^^  ^  ^^ 

and  necessarily  fail.     It  mu^  ^^^.^^^^^  ^,^  ^^., 

great   eternal  law  of  ictnbutionio  individuals 

vhich  is  illustrated  by  every  single     ...  to  >   o  ^^ 

and  of  nations.     And  the  education  .h^h  «    -  ^ 

Sero-noble  as  it  was  m  "-"^J^s  was  et  an  educa- 
.a.  its  partial  and  ^^^^^^^j:^  .ero's  boy- 
tion  of  compromises.     Alike  i.i  .-^^,,i,ood.  he  acte  1 

hood  and  the  graver  temptations  o.  hi.  manho 
on  the  foolishly-fatal  pnnc.ple  that 

.■Had  the  vvild  oat  not  been  sown, 
The  soil  left  barren  s:ar.c  had  grown. 
The  <^raiu  wherel.y  a  nun.  may  live. 


120 


:sexeCa. 


Any  Christian  might  have  predicted  tlie  rejidt ;  one  would 
have  thought  that  even  a  pagan  philosopher  might  have 
been  enligiitened  enough  to  observe  it.  We  often  quote 
the  lines — 


and 


"  The  child  is  father  of  the  man," 


"Just  as  the  twig  is  bent  the  tree  inclines."/ 


But  the  ancients  were  quite  as  familiar  witli  the  same  truth 
under  other  images.     "  The  cask,"    wrote    Horace,   "  will 
long  retain  the  odour  of  that  which  has  Oiice  been  i)oured 
into  it  when  new"     Quintilian,  describing  the  depraved  in- 
fluences which   surrounded   even   the   infancy  of  a   Roman 
child, said,  "From  tliese  :ix\^^ first familiariiyjhcn  naiure." 
No  one  has  laid  down  the  principle  more  empha:ica!ly 
than   Seneca  himself      Take,   for  instance,    the  following 
passage  from   his    Letters,    on   evil    conversation.       "  The 
conversation,"  he  says,    "  of  these   men   is  very  injurious; 
for,  even  if  it  does  no  immediate  harm,  it  leaves  its  sx^eds' 
m  the  mind,  and  follows  us  even  when  we  have  gone  from 
the  speakers,-a  p'ague  sure  to  spring  up  in  future  resur- 
rection.    Just  as  those  who  have  heard  a  symphony  carry 
in  their  ears  the  tane  and  sweetne  -s  of  the  song  which  en- 
tangles their  thouglns,  and  tloes  not   suffer  them  to  give 
their  wliole  energy  to  serious  matters ;  so  tlie  conversation 
of  flatterers  and  of  those   wlio  praise  evil  tilings,  lin-ers 
longer  m  the  mind  than  the  time  of  hearing  it.      Nor  is 
It  easy  to  shake  out  of  the  soul  a  sweet  sound  ;    it  pursues 
us,  and  hngers  with  us,  and  at  perpetual  intervals  recurs 
Our  ears  therefore  must  be  closed  to  evil  words   and  t'^at 
to  the  very  first  we  hear.     For  when  they  have  oLce  be^un 


XE/^O  AXn  HIS   TUTOR. 


121 


and  been  admitted,  they  acquire  more  and  more  audacity;" 
and  FO  he  adds  a  little  afterwards,  "our  days  flow  on,  and 
irreparable  life  passes  beyond  our   reach."     Yet  he  who 
wrote  these  noble  words  was  not  only  a  flatterer  to  his  im- 
perial pupil,  but  is  charged  with  having  deliberately  encour- 
aged him  in   a  foolish  passion  for  a  freedwoman  named 
Acte,  into  which  Nero  fefl.     It  was  of  course  his  duty  to  le- 
call  the  wavering  affections  of  the  youthful  Emperor  to  his 
betrothed  Octavia,  tlie  daughter  of  Claudius,  to  who;n  ho 
had  been  bound  by  every  tie  of  honour  and  affection,  and 
his  union  with  whom  gave  some  shadow   of  greater  legiti- 
macy to  his  practical  usurpation.     But  princes  rarely  love 
the  wives  to  whom  thev  owe  any  part  of  their  elevation. 
Henry  VII.  treated  Ehzabeth  of  York  wiih  many  slights. 
The  union  of  William  III.  with  Mary  was  over..hadou-ed  by 
her  cunerior  claim  to  the  royal  power;  and  Nero  from  the 
first  regarded  with  aversion,  which  ended  in  assassumtion, 
the  poor  young   orphan  girl  who  recalled  to  the  popular 
memory  his  slender   pretensions   to  hereditary  cmpu-e   and 
whom  he  regarded  as  a  possible  rival,  if  her  cowed  and 
plastic  nature  should  ever  become  a  tool  m  the  hands  of 
Lre  powerful  intriguers.      But  we   do  not  hear  o    any  at- 
tempt on  Seneca-s  part  to  urge  upon  Nero  the  fulul  ment  o 
this  high  duty,  and  we  find  him  sinking  urto  H- J^^graded 
positioi.  of  an  accomplice  with  young  profligates  like  Otho, 
Ls  the  confident  of  a  dishonourable  love.     Such  conduct, 
v-hich  would  have  done  discredit  to  a  mere  courtier,  wa,o 
a  Stoic  disgraceful.     But  the  principle  which  led  to  it  is    n. 
^erv  principle  to  which  we  have  been  pointing.-the  priac- 
'e  of  mo  al  compronnse,  the  principle   of  permitting  and 
nco  ua.ing  what  is  evil  in  the  vain  hope  of  thereby  pre- 
-  n  mg  Vat  is  worse.     It  i-  hardly  strange  that  Seneca 


122 


SENECA. 


should  have  erred  in  this  way,  for  compromise  was  the  char 
acter  of  liis  entire  hie.  He  appears  to  have  set  befo:e  him- 
self the  whollv-  imi'ossible  task  of  h€\Yi:r  both  a  '^eniiine 
philosopher  and  a  statesman  under  the  Ccesars.  He  p;ided 
himself  on  being  not  only  a  philosopher,  but  also  a  man  oi 
the  world,  and  the  conf.eqiience  was,  that  in  both  capaci- 
ties he  failed.  It  was  as  true  in  Pa-anism  as  it  is  in  Chri  - 
tianity,  that  a  man  must  make  his  choice  between  duty  a;ul 
i'lierest — between  the  rervice  of  Mammon  and  the  service 
of  God.  No  man  ever  gained  anything  but  contempt  and 
ruin  by  incessantly  halting  between  two  opinions. 

And  by  not  taking  that  lofty  line  of  duty  wliich  a  Zeno  or 
an  Antisthenes  would  have  taken,  Seneca  became  more  or 
less  involved  in  some  of  the  most  dreadful  events  of  Nero's 
reign.  Every  one  of  the  terrible  doubts  under  which  iu's 
reputation  has  suffered  arose  from  his  having  permitted  the 
principle  of  expedience  to  sui)ercede  the  laws  of  \-irtue. 
One  or  two  of  these  events  we  must  briefly  narrate. 

We  have  already  i)ointed  out  that  the  Nemesis  which  for 
so  many  years  had  been  secretly  dogging  the  footsteps  of 
Agrippini  made  her  tremble  under  the  weight  of  its  first 
cruel  blows  when  she  seemed  to  have  attained  the  higliest 
summit  of  her  ambition.  Very  early  indeed  Nero  be-an  to 
be  galled  and  irritated  by  the  insatiate  assumption  and 
swollen  authority  of  '•  the  best  of  mothers."  The  furious 
reproaches  which  she  heaped  ui)on  him  when  she  saw  in 
Acte  a  possible  rival  to  her  power  drove  him  to  take  refu'^e 
HI  the  facile  and  imphilosojihic  worldliness  of  Seneca's  con- 
cessions, and  goaded  him  ah-nost  immediately  afterwards 
into  an  atrocious  crime.  He  naturally  looked  on  ISritanni- 
cus,  the  )-out;iful  son  of  Claudius,  with  even  more  suspicion 
and  hatred  than  that    with    which    he    regarded  Octavia. 


NEKO   AXD   HIS    TCTOR. 


123 


Kings  pave  rarely  been  ab'e  to  abstain  .rom  acts  of  severity 
a^a^nst  those  wiio  might  become  claimants  to  the  throne. 
The  feelings  of  King  John  towards  Prince  Arthur,  of  Henry 
IV.  towards  th.e  Earl  of  March,  of  Mary  towards  Lady  Jane 
Grey,  of  iilizabeth  toward.  Mary  Stuart,  of  King  James  to- 
wards Kady  Araliella  Stuart,  resembled,  but  probabl)-  by  no 
means  equailed  in  intensit:',  those  of  Nero  towards  his  kins- 
man   and    adoptixe  brother.     To  show  him  any  affection 
was  a  dangerous  crime,  and  it  furnished  a  sufficient  cause 
for  immediate  removal  if  any  attendant   behaved  towards 
him  with  fidelity.      Such  a  line  of  treatment   foreshadowed 
the  catastrophe  wh.ich  was  hastened  by  the  rage  of  Agi.p- 
pina.     She  would  go,  she  said,  and  take  with  her  to  the 
camp  the  noble  boy  who  was  now  of  full  age  to  undertake 
tho=e  imvierial  duties  which   a    usurper  was  exercising  m 
virtue  of  crimes  which  she  was  now   prepared  to  confess. 
Then  let  the  mutilated  Burrus  and  the  glib-tongued  Seneca 
see  whether  thev  could  be  a  match  for  the  son  ot  Claudius 
and  the  daughter  of  Germanicus.     Such  language,  uttered 
with  violent  gestures   and  furious  imprecations,  might  well 
excite  the  alarm  of  the  timi<l  Nero.     And  that  a^ar.v^was 
increased  by  a  recent  circumstance,  which  showed  that  aU 
ralstral  spirit  was  not  dead  in  the  breast  o    Bmamn- 
eus.     During  the  festivities  of  the  Satiirnaha  w  .ch  ..re 
keT)t  by  the  ancients  with  all  the  hiiani)   01 
Christmas,  Nero  had  been  elected  by  lot  as    "  governor  o 
the  feast,"  and,  in  that  capacity,  was  entitled  to  1- 
orders  to  the  guests.     To  the  others  he  issued  trivial  niaa- 
date    which  L^^  not  make  them  blush;  but  Br.tannicus, 
m'dationof  every  principle  of  Roman  decorum,  was  o. 

dered  to  stand  up  in  the  middle  and  smg  a  song.      Ihe 
dercd  to  stanc      1  banquets,   and 

boy,  inexpenenceU  as  )et  even 


124 


SENECA. 


wholly  unaccustomed  to  drunken   convivialities,  miHit  well 
Imve  faltered ;  but  he  at  once  rose,  and  with  a  steady  voice 
began  a  strain-probably  the  magnificent  wail  of  Androm- 
ache over  the  fall  of  Troy,  which  has  bee;i  preserved  to  us 
from  a  lost  play  of  Ennius— in  which  he  indicated  his  own 
disgraceful  ejection  from  his  hereditary  rights.     His  cour- 
age and  his  misfortunes  woke  in  the  guests  a  feeling  of  pity 
which  night  and  wine  made   them  less   careful   to  diccr,u.e 
From  that  moment  the  l^tte  of  Britannicus  was  sea!e<l  °  I  o- 
custa,  tJie  celebrated  poisoner  of  ancient  Ron^.e,  was  sum- 
moned to  the  councils  of  Nero  to  get  rid  of  Britannicus,  as 
she  had  already  been  summoned  to   those  of  his  mother 
when  she  wished  to  di:.e>i,barrass   herself  of  Britannicus's 
father.     1  he  mam  difficulty  was  to  avoid  discoverv  since 
nothing  was  eaten  or  drunk  at  the  imperial  table  till  it  had 
been  tasted  by  V\^>i prcegustator.     To  avoid  this  difficulty  a 
very  liot  draught  was  given   to   Britannicus,  and  when  he 
wished  for  something  cooler  a  swift   and   subtle  poison  was 
dropped  into  the  cold  water  with  which   it   was  tempered 
The  boy  drank,  and  instantly  sank  from  his  seat,  gaspin- 
and  speechless.     The  guests  started  up  in  consternatioir 
and  fixed  their  eyes  on  Nero.     He  with  the  utmo:-t  coolness 
assured  them  that  it  was  merely  a  fit  of  ej^ilepsy,  to  which 
his  brother  was  accustomed,  and  from  which  he  would  soon 
lecover.     1  he  terror  and  agitation  of  Agrippina  showed  to 
every  one  that  she  at  least  was  guiltless  of  this  dark  deed- 
but  the  unhappy  Octavia,  young  as  she  was.  and  doublv  ter- 
rible on  every  ground  as  the  blow  must   have  been  to  lie^ 
sat  silent  and  motionle.^s,  having  already  learnt  by  her  mis- 
fortunes the  awful   necessity  for  suppressing  under  a.  im- 
passive e.xtenor  her  affections  and  sorrows,  lier  hopes  and 
fears.     In  the  dead  of  night,  amid  storms  and  murky  rain 


NERO  AND  JUS    TUTOR. 


125 


which  were  thought  to  indicate  the  wrath  of  heaven,  the 
last  of  the  Glaudii  was  hastily  and  meanly  hurried  into  a 

dishonourable  grave. 

We  may  believe  that  in  this  crime  Seneca  had  no  share 
whatever,  but  we  can  hardly  believe  that  he  was  ignorant 
of  it  after  it  had  been  committed,  or  that  he  had  no  share 
in  the  intensely  hypocritical  edict  in  which  Nero  bewaile.l 
the  fact  of  his  adoptive  brothers  death,  excused  his  hur- 
ried funeral,  and  threw  himself  on  the  additional  indulgence 
and  protection  of  the  Senate.     Nero  showed  the  conscious- 
ness of  guilt  bv  the  immense  largesses  which  he  distributed 
to  the  most  powerful  of  his  friends.     "  Nor  were  there  want- 
ing  men,"  savs   Tacitus,    in    a   most    significant   manner, 
-■who  accused  certain  people,  notorious  for  their  high  profess- 
ions, cfhavingat  that  period  divided  among  them  rillas  and 
houses  as  though  they  had  been  so  much  spoiir        here  can 
hardly  be  a  doubt  that  the  great   historian  intends  by   his 
remark  to  point  at  Seneca,  to  whom  he  tries  to  be  fair,  but 
..horn  he  could  never  quite  forgive  for  his  .hare  in  Uie  d. 
graces  of  Nero's  reign.     That  avarice  was  one  of  be.^ecas 
temptations  is  too  probable  ;  that  expediency  --  a  guiding 
nrincip'e  of  his  conduct  is  but  too  evident ;  and  lor  a  mai 
Xuch  a  character  to  rebut  an  inueudo  '-^ever  ..^asy 
task.     Nay  more,  it  was  after  this   oul  even  ,  at    he  close 
of  Nero's  first  year,  that  Seneca  addressed  hin    hi      e  e 
travagaut  and  glowing  language  of  his  treatise  on  C,e^nenq^ 
"The  qualitv  of  mercy,"  and  the  duty  of  princes  to  practise 
it  1  as  never  been  more  eloquently  extolled  ;  but  it  is  accom- 
pa  ied    by  a  fulsome    ilattery  which  ha.  in    it  something 
pa  nulK  grotesque  as  addressed  by  a  philosopher  to  oue 

Thorn  lie  knew  to  have  been  V^^^  ^^^^^^   ^ 
inhuman  fratricide.      Imagine  some   Jewish  Phansee.-  . 


126 


S EXEC  A, 


Nicodemus  or  a  Gamaliel — pronouiic'ng  an  eulogy  on  the 
tenderness  of  a  Herod,  and  you  h.ave  some  picture  of  the 
appearance  whicli  Seneca's  consistency  must  have  worn  in 
the  eyes  of  his  contemporaries. 

This  event  took  place   a.  d.  55,  in  the  first  year  of  Nero's 
Quinquenjiiicn,  and  th.e  i^ame  ^-ear  was  nearly  si-nalized  by 
the  death  of  Iiis  motlier.     A  cb.arge  of  pretended  conspiracy 
was  invented  a-ainst  Jier,  and  it  is  probable  tliat  but  lor 
the  inter\-ention  of  Burrus,  wlio  with  Seneca  was  appointed 
to  examine  into  the  charge,  she  woird  ha-e  fallen   a  verr 
sudden  victim  to  t!ie  cowardly  credulity  and  growing  hatred 
of  her  son.     The  ext.aordinar,-  ar.d   eloquent   audacity  of 
her  defence  created  a  reaction   in  her  favour,   and  secured 
the  puni;  hment  of  lier  accusers.     But  the  ties  of  affection 
could  not  long  unite  two  such  wicked  and  imperious  natures 
as  those  of  Agripriina  and  herson.   All  history  shows  that  there 
can  be  no  real  love  between  souls  exceptionally  wicked,  and 
that  tliis   is  still  more  ijiipossible  when  the  alliance  between 
them  has  been  sealed  by  a  complicity  \.\  crime.     Nero  liad 
now  fallen  into  a  deep  infatuation  for  Poppxa  .Sabina,  the 
beautiful  wife  of  Otlio,  and  slie  refused  him  her  hand  so  long 
as  he  was  still  undef  the  control  of  his  mother.      At  this  time 
Agnppuia,  as  the  jr.st  consequence  of  her  many  crimes,  was 
rcga-ded  by  all  classes  witli  a  fanaticism  of  hatred  which  in 
Poppxa-  Sabina  was   intensified    by  manifest   self-interest. 
Nero,  always  weak,  had  long  rega'ded  his  mother  with  leal 
terror  and  disgu.st,  and  he  scarcely  needed  the  urgency  of 
constant  apphcation  to  make  h-m    long   to   get  rid   of  her. 
B;it  the  daughter  of  Germanicus   could   not  be   open.ly  de- 
stroyed, whi^e  licr  own   precautions  helped  to  secure  h.er 
agair.st  secret  assassination.     1 1  only  rcmainded  to  compass 
Iier  death  by  treachery.     Nero  had  long  compelled  h.er  to 


NERO   A  XV   HIS    TUTOR. 


127 


\ 


live  in  -suburban  retirement,  and  had  made  no  attempt  to 
conceal   the  open  rupture    which    existed    between   them. 
Anicetus,  admiral  of  the  fleet  at   Misenum,  and  a  former 
instructor  of  Nero,  suggested  the  expedient  of  a  pretended 
public  reconciliation,  in  viUue  of  which  Agrippuia  sh.oukl 
be  invited  to  Bai^e,  and  on  l:er  return  should  be  placed  on 
board  a  vessel  so  constructed  as  to  come  to  pieces  by  the 
removal  of  bolts.     The  disaster  might  then  be  attributed 
to  a  mere  naval  acclde..t,  and  Nero  might  make  the  most 
ostentatious  display  of  his  affection  and  regret 

q^he  invitation  was  sent,  and  a  vessel  specially  decorated 
was  ordered  to   await  her  movements.     But    e.uK-r  bx^ 
suspicion  or  from  secret  infovmat.on,  she  decbned  to  a  a^^ 
heiLf  of  it,  and  was  conveyed  to   Ea.e  m  a  Utter.      1  he 
eS"  on  of  hypocritical  atTection  with  which  she  was  received, 
,niuartenderness  and   honour  with   whic     she  was 
eated   the  earnest  gaze,  the  warm  embrace,  the     ar  cd 
coiwer^ation,  removed  her  suspicions,  and  she  consented  to 
e  urn  in  the'  vessel  of  honour.     As  though  for  the  purpose 
of  revealiiK^  the  crime,  the  night  was  starry  and  t  e  sea 
ca im      Th;  ship  had  not  sailed  far,  and  Crepereius  Ga,  us 
one  of  1-  frienL.  was  standing  near  the  helm,  whdc  a  la 
Tamed   \cerronla  was  seated  at  her  feet  as  she  reel    ed 
Ld   bo'th  were  vieing  with  each  other  in  the  warm  h  o 
lir  congratulations  upon  the  -^^  ^  ™ ;,  , 

cra-:hwas    heard,  and   the  canopy  above  then   xv  u< 
:;n:eightedwlthaquant.yofleadwa.su     en,-a 

Crepe:  eius  was  crushed  to  ^^^^^ ^t  of  the 
and  Aceironia  were  saved  by  t,.e  ^^^-^^,,^ 
eouch  on  which  they  we.-e  resting  .  ^^^^^  ,,„., 
as  accomi.lices  were  aungled  -  ;  ^^^^^.^  ,^,,,,ero -s 
,vere  innocent  of  the  plot,  the  maca.ner. 


128 


SEXECA 


vessel  failed.  Some  of  the  rowers  rushed  to  one  side  of  the 
ship,  hoping  in  tliat  manner  to  sink  it,  but  here  too  their 
councils  were  divided  and  confused.  Acerronia,  in  the 
selfish  hope  of  securing  assistance,  exclaimed  that  she  was 
Agrippina,  and  was  immediately  despatched  with  oars  and 
poles;  Agrippina,  silent  and  unrecognized,  received  a  wound 
upon  the  shoulder,  but  succeeded  in  keeping  herself  afloat 
till  s-.e  was  picked  up  by  fishermen  and  carried  in  safety  to 
her  villa. 

The  hideous  attempt  from  which  she  had  been  thus  mi- 
raculously rescued  d.d  not  escipe  her  keen  intuition,  accus- 
tomed as  it  was  to  deeds  of  guilt;  but,  seeing  that  her  only 
chance  of  safety  rested  in  dissimulation  and  reticense,  she 
sent  her  freedman  Agerinus  to  teil  her  son  that  by  the  mer- 
cy of  lieaven  she  had  escaped  from  a  terrible  acc'dent,  but 
to  beg  him  not  to  be  alarmed,  and  not  to  come  to  see  her 
because  sliC  needed  rest. 

Tlie  news  filled  Xero  with  the  wildest  terror,  and  the  ex- 
pectation of  an  immediate  revenge.      In  horrible   agitation 
and  uncertainty  he  instantly  required  the  presence  of'^Burrus 
and  Seneca.      Tacitus  doubts  whether  they   may   not  have 
been  already  aware  of  what  l:e  had  attempted,  and  Dion,  to 
whose  gross  calumnies,  however,  we  need  pay  no  attention, 
declares    tliat    Seneca  had   frequently  urged    x\ero  to  the 
deed,  either  in  the  hoj^e  of  overshadowingirs  own  guilt,  or 
of  involving  Nero  in  a  crime  which  should  hasten  Ws  most 
speedy  destruction  at  tiie  liands  of  gods  aixl  men.      In  t^:e 
absence  of  all  evidence   we    may    with    perfect    confidence 
acquit  the  memory  of  these  eminent  men  from  having  gone 
so  far  as  this. 

It  must  have    been    a    strange    and  awful   scene.     The 
}oung  man,  for  Nero  wa.   but  twenty-two  year  old,  poured 


NERO    AND    HIS    TUTOR, 


129 


into  the  ears  their  tumult  of  his  agitation  and  alarm.  White 
with  fear,  weak  with  dissipation,  and  tormented  by  the 
furies  of  a  guilty  conscience,  the  wretched  youth  looked  from 
one  to  another  of  his  aged  ministers.  A  long  and  painful 
pause  ensued.  If  they  dissuaded  him  in  vain  from  the 
crime  which  he  meditated  their  lives  would  have  been  in 
danger ;  and  perhaps  they  sincerely  thought  that  things  had 
gone  so  far  that,  unless  Agrippina  were  anticipated,  Nero 
would  be  destroyed.  Seneca  was  the  first  to  break  ti^it 
silence  of  anguish  by  inquiring  of  Burrus  whether  tlie  sol- 
diery could  be  entrusted  to  put  her  to  death.  His  reply  was 
that  tl:e  prcetorians  would  do  nothing  against  a  daughter  of 
Germanicus)  and  that  Anicetus  should  accompli.sli  what  he 
had  promised.  Anicetus  showed  himself  prompt  to  crime, 
and  Nero  thanked  him  in  a  rapture  of  gratitude.  While 
the  freedman  Agerinus  was  delivering  to  Nero  his  motliers 
message,  Anicetus  dropped  a  dagger  at  his  feet,  declared 
that  he  had  caught  him  in  the  very  act  of  attempting  the 
Emperor's  assassination,  and  hurried  off  with  a  band  of  sol- 
diers to  punish  Agrippina  as  the  author  of  the  crime. 

The  multitude  meanwhile  were  roaming  in  wild  excite- 
ment along  the  shore;  their  torches  v\'ere  seen  glimmering 
in  evident  commotion  about  tlie  scene  of  the  calamity, 
where  some  were  vrading  into  the  water  in  search  of  the 
body,  and  others  were  shouting  incoherent  questions  and 
replies.  At  the  rumour  of  Agrippina's  escape  they  rushed 
off  in  a  body  to  lier  villa  to  express  their  congratulations, 
where  they  were  dispersed  by  the  soldiers  of  Anicetus,  who 
had  already  token  possession  of  it.  Scattering  or  seizing 
the  slaves  who  came  in  their  way,  and  bursting  their  passage 
from  door  to  door,  they  found  the  Empress  in  a  dimly-lighted 
chamber,    attended    only  by    a    single  handmaid.     ''  Dost 


I30 


SENECA, 


thou  too  desert  me?"  exclaimed  the  wretched  woman  to  her 
servant,  as  she  rose  to  slip  away.     In   sile:it   determination 
the  soldiers    surrounded  her  couch,  and   Anicetus  was  the 
first  to  stike  her  with  a  stick.     ''  Strike  my  womb,"  she  cried 
to  him  faintly,  as  he  drew  his  sword,   ''  for  it  bore   Nero." 
The  blow  of  Anicetus  was  the  signal  for  her  immediate  de- 
struction :  she  was  dispatched  with  many  wounds,  and  was 
buried  that  night   at   Misenum  on  a  common  couch   and 
with  a  mean  funeral.     Such  an  end,  many  years  previously, 
this  sister,  and  wife,  and  mother  of  emperors  had  anticipated 
and   depised;  for  when   the  Chaldoeans  had   assured  her 
that  her  son  would  become   Emperor,   and  would  murder 
her,  she  is  said  to  have  exclaimed,  ^'Occidat  dum  imperet," 
''  Let  him  slay  me  if  he  but  reign." 

It  only  remained  to  account  for  the  crime,  and  offer  for 
it  such  lying  defences  as   were  most   likely    to  gain    credit. 
Flying  to  Naples    from    a  scene    which    had  now    become 
awful  to  him,— for  places   do   not    change  as   men's    face/ 
change,  and,  besides  this,  his  disturbed  conscience   made 
him  fancy  that  he  heard  from  the  hill  of  Misenum  the  blow- 
ing of  a  ghostly  trumpet   and   wailings   about   his   mother's 
tomb  in  the  hours  of  night,— he  sent  from  thence   a  letter 
to  the  Senate,  saying  that  his  mother  had   been   punished 
for  an  attempt  upon  his  life,  and  adding  a  list  of  her  crimes, 
real  and  imaginary,  the  narrative  of  her  ^rrr/V/tv/A?/ shipwreck, 
and  his  opinion  that  her  death  was  a  public  blessing.     The 
author  of  this  shameful  document  was  Seneca,  and  in  com- 
posing it  he  reached  the  nadir    of   his    moral   degradation. 
Even  the  lax  morality  of  a  most  degenerate  age  condemned 
him  for  calmly  sitting  down  to  decorate  with  tlie  graces  of 
rhetoric  a  id  antithesis  an  atrocity  too  deep  for  the   powers 
of  indignation.     A    Seneca    could  stoop  to    write    what    a 


NERO   AND   Ills     TUTOR. 


131 


Thrasea  Paetus  could  scarcely  stoop  to  hear;  for  in  the 
meeting  of  the  Senate  at  whicli  the  letter  was  recited, 
Thrasea  rose  in  indignation,  and  went  straight  home  ratlier 
than  seem  to  sanction  by  his  presence  the  adulation  of  a 
matricide. 

And  the  composition   of  tliat   guily,  elaborate,  sliameful 
letter  was  the  last  prominent  act  of  Seneca's  public  life. 


CHAPTER    XII. 


THE    BEGINNING    OF   THE    END 

Nor  was  it  unnatural  that  it  should  be.      IMora.  precepts, 
philosophic  gu:dance  were  no  longer  possible  to  one  wr.ose 
comphances  or  who.^c  timidity  had  led  him  so  far  as  first  to 
sanction  matricide,  and  then  to  defend  it.     He   might  in- 
deed be  still  powerful  to  recom.mend  |)rinciples  of  common 
sense   and  political   expediency,  but   the  loftier  lessons  of 
Stoicism,  nay,  even  the  better  utterances  of  a  mere  ordinary 
Pagan   morality,  could  henceforth    only  fall  from  Ins  lips 
with  something  of  a  hollow  ring.      He   miglit  interfere,  as 
we   know  he   did,  to  render  as  innocuous  as    possible   the 
pernicious  vanity  which  made  Nero  so  ready  to  degrade  his 
imperial  rank  by  public  appearances  on  the  orcliestra  or  in 
the  race-course,   but  he   could  hardly  address   again  such 
noble  teachings  as  that  of  the  treatise  on  Clemency  to  one 
whom,  on  grounds  of  political  expediency,  he  had  not  dis- 
suaded from    the    treacherous  murder  of    a  motlier,  who, 
whatever  her  enormities,  yet  for  his  sake  had  sold  her  very 

soul. 

Although  there  may  have  been  a  strong  suspicion  that 
foul  play  had  been  committed,  the  actual  facts  and  details 
of  the  death  of  Agrippina  would  rest  between  Nero  and 
Seneca  as  a  guilty  secret,  m  the  guilt  of  which  Seneca  him- 


r//£  BEGINyiXG   OF    THE  EXD, 


m 


self  must  have  his  share.  Such  a  position  of  things  was  the 
inevitable  death-blow,  not  only  to  all  friendship,  but  to  all 
confidence,  and  ultimately  to  all  intercourse.  We  see  in 
sacred  history  that  Joab's  participation  in  David's  guilty 
secret  gave  him  the  absolute  mastery  over  his  own  sover- 
eign ;  we  see  re|)eatedly  in  profane  history  that  the  nuitual 
knowledge  of  some  crime  is  the  invariable  cause  of  deadly 
hatred  between  a  subject  and  a  king.  Such  feelings  as 
King  John  may  be  su|)posed  to  have  had  to  Hubert  de 
Burgh,  or  King  Richard  111.  to  Sir  James  Tyrrel,  or  King 
James  I.  to  the  Earl  of  Somerset,  such  probably,  in  still 
more  virulent  intensitv,  were  the  feeliniis  of  Nero  towards 
his  whilome    "guide,  philosopr.er,  and  friend." 

For  Nero  very  soon  learnt  that  Seneca  was  no  longer 
necessary  to  him.  For  a  time  he  lingered  in  Campania,  guiltily 
dubious  as  to  the  kind  of  reception  that  awaited  him  in  the 
capital.  The  assurances  of  the  vile  crew  which  surrou.uled 
him  soon  made  that  fear  wear  off,  and  when  lie  ])lucked  u[) 
the  courage  to  return  to  his  palace,  he  might  himself  have 
been  amazed  at  the  e:Tusion  of  infamous  loyalty  and  \enal 
acclamation  with  which  he  was  received.  All  Rome 
poured  itself  forth  to  meet  him;  the  Senate  appeared  in 
festal  robes  with  their  wives  and  girls  and  boys  in  long 
array;  seats  and  scaffoldings  were  built  up  along  the  road 
by  which  he  had  to  pass,  as  though  tlie  populace  had  gone 
forth  to  see  a  triumph.  With  haughty  mein,  the  victor  of 
a  nation  of  slaves,  he  ascended  the  Capitol,  gave  thanks  to 
tlie  gods,  and  went  home  to  betray  henceforth  the  full  per- 
versity of  a  nature  which  the  reverence  for  h'.s  mother,  such 
as  it  was,  had  hitherto  in  part  restrained.  But  the  instincts 
of  the  populace  were  suppressed  rather  than  eradicated. 
Thevhung  a  sack  from  his  statue  by  night  in  allusion  to  the 


134 


SENECA, 


old  punishment  of  parricides,  who  were  sentenced  to  be 
flung  into  the  sea,  tied  up  in  a  sack  with  a  serpent,  a  mon- 
key, and  a  cock.  They  exposed  an  infant  \\\  the  Forum 
with  a  tablet  on  which  was  written,  ''  I  refuse  to  rear  thee, 
lest  thou  shouldst  slay  thy  mother."  They  scrawled  upon 
the  blank  walls  of  Rome  an  iambic  line  which  reminded 
all  who  read  it  that  Nero,  Orestes,  and  Alcmoeon  were  mur- 
derers of  their  mothers.  Even  Nero  must  have  been  well 
aware  that  he  presented  a  hideous  spectacle  in  the  eyes  of 
all  who  had  the  faintest  shade  of  righteousness  among  the 
people  whom  he  ruled. 

All  this  took  place  in  a.  d.  59,  and  we  hear  no  more  of 
Seneca  till  the  year  62,  a  year  memorable  for  the  death  oi' 
Burrus,  who  had  long  been  his  honest,  friendly,  and  faith- 
ful colleague.  In  these  dark  times,  when  all  men  seemed 
to  be  speaking  in  a  wliisper,  almost  every  death  of  a  con- 
spicuous and  high-minded  man,  if  not  caused  by  open  vio- 
lence, falls  under  the  suspicion  of  secret  poison.  The 
death  of  Burrus  may  have  been  due  (from  tlie  description) 
to  diphtheria,  but  the  ])opular  voice  charged  Nero  with 
having  hastened  his  death  by  a  pretended  remedy,  and 
declared  that,  when  the  Emperor  visited  his  sick  bed,  the 
dying  man  turned  away  from  his  inquiries  with  the  laconic 
answer,  "  I  am  well." 

His  death  was  regretted,  not  only  from  the  memory  of 
his  virtues,  but  also  from  the  fact  that  Nero  a[)pointed  two 
men  as  his  successors,  of  whom  the  one,  Fenius  Rut  us, 
was  honorable  but  indolent  ;  the  other  and  more  i)ower- 
ful,  Sofonius  Tigelhnus  had  won  for  himself  among  cruel 
and  shameful  associates  a  pre-eminence  of  hatred  and  of 
shame. 

However  faulty  and  inconsistent  Seneca  may  have  been, 


THE  BEGINNING   OF   THE  END, 


135 


there  was  at  any  rate  no  possibility  that  he  should  divide 
with  a  Tigelhnus  the  direction  of  his  still  youthful  master. 
He  was  by  no  means  deceived  as  to  the  position  in  which 
he  stood,  and  the  few  among  Nero's  followers  in  whom  any 
spark  of  honour  was  left  informed  him  of  the  incessant  cal- 
umnies which  were  used  to  undermine  his  influence.  Tig- 
elhnus and  his  friends  dwelt  on  his  enormous  wealth  and 
his  magnificent  villas  and  gardens,  which  could  only  have 
been  acquired  with  ulterior  objects,  and  which  threw  into 
the  shade  the  splendour  of  the  Emperor  himself  They 
tried  to  kindle  the  inflammable  jealousies  of  Nero's  feeble 
mind  by  representing  Seneca  as  attempting  to  rival  him  in 
poetry,  and  as  claiming  the  entire  credit  of  his  eloquence, 
while  he  mocked  his  divine  singing,  and  disparaged  his  ac- 
comphshments  as  a  harper  and  charioteer  because  he  him- 
self was  unable  to  acquire  them.  Nero,  they  urged  was  a 
boy  no  longer ;  let  him  get  rid  of  his  schoolmaster,  and  find 
sufficient  instruction  in  the  example  of  his  ancestors. 

Foreseeing  how  such  arguments  must  end;  Seneca  re- 
quested an  interview  with  Nero ;  begged  to  be  sutYered  to 
retire  altogether  from  public  life  ;  pleaded  age  and  increas- 
ing infirmities  as  an  excuse  for  desiring  a  calm  retreat ;  and 
off*ered  unconditionally  to  resign  the  wealth  and  honours 
which  had  excited  the  cupidity  of  his  enemies,  but  which 
were  simply  due  to  Nero's  unexampled  liberality  during  the 
eight  years  of  his  government,  towards  one  whom  b.e  had 
regarded  as  a  benefactor  and  a  friend,  l^ut  Nero  did  not 
choose  to  let  Seneca  escape  so  lightly.  He  argued  that, 
being  still  young,  he  could  not  spare  him,  and  that  to 
accept  his  offers  would  not  be  at  aU  in  accordance  with  his 
fame  for  generosity.  A  proficient  in  the  imi)erial  art  of 
hiding    detestation    under    deceitful    blandshments,    Nero 


# 


V 


136 


SENECA. 


ended    the    interview    with    embraces    and    assurances    of 
friendship.     Seneca  thanked  him— the  usual  termination, 
as    Tacitus  bitterly  adds,  of  interviews  with  a  ruler— but 
nevertheless  altered  his  entire  manner  of  Hfe,  forbade  his 
friends  to  throng  to  his  levees,  avoided  all  companions,  and 
rarely  appeared  in  pubhc— wishing  it  to  be  beheved  that  he 
was  suffering  from  weak  health,  or  was  wholly  occupied  in 
the    pursuit   of   philosophy.       He    well    knew  the    arts    of 
courts,  for  in  his  book  on  Anger  he  has  told  an  anecdote  of 
one  who,  being   asked   how  he  had  managed   to  attain  so 
rare  a  gift  as  old  age  in  a  palace,  replied,   ''  By  submitting 
to  injuries,  and  returning  thanJzs  for  tJiemy     But  he  must 
have  known  that  his  life  hung  upon  a  thread,  for  in  the 
very  same  year  an  attempt  was  made  to  involve  him  in  a 
charge  of  treason   as  one  of  the   friends  of  C.  Calpurnius 
Piso,  an  illustrious  nobleman  whose  wealth  and  abiuty  made 
him  an  object  of  jealousy  and  suspicion,  though  he  was 
naturally  unambitious  and  devoid  of  energy.     The  attempt 
failed  at  the  time,  and  Seneca  was  able  triumphantly  to  re- 
fute the  charge  of  any  treasonable  design.      But  the  fact  of 
such  a  charge  being  made  showed  how  insecure  was  the 
position  of   any  man  of  eminence   under   the    deepening 
tyranny  of  Nero,  and  it   precipitated  the  conspiracy  which 
two  years  afterwards  was  actually  formed. 

Not  long  after  the  death  of  Burrus,  when  Nero  began  to 
add  sacrilege  to  his  other  crimes,  Seneca  made  one  more 
attempt  to  retire  from  Rome ;  and,  when  permission  was  a 
second  time  refused,  he  feigned  a  severe  illness,  and  con- 
fined himself  to  his  chamber.  It  was  asserted,  and 
believed,  that  about  this  time  Nero  made  an  attempt  to 
poison  him  by  the  instrumentality  of  his  freedman  Cleoni- 
cus,  which  was   only   defeated  by  the   confession  of  an  ac- 


THE  BEGIXXIXG   OF   THE  EXD. 


U7 


complice  or  by  the  abstemious  habits  of  the  philosopher 
who  now  took  notliing  but  bread  and  fruit,  and  never 
quenched  his  thirst  except  out  of  the  running  stream. 

It  was  during  those  two  years  of  Seneca's  seclusion  and 
disgrace  that  an  event  happened  of  imperishable  interest. 
On  the  orgies  of  a  shameful  court,  on  the  supineness  of  a 
degenerate    people,    there    burst — as    upon   the    court   of 
Charles    II. — a    sudden   lig]]tning-flash   of  retribution.     In 
its  character,  in  its  extent,  in  the   devastation  and   anguish 
of  which  it  was  the  cause,  in  the  im|)rovements  by  which  it 
was  followed,  in  tlie  lying  origin  to  which  it  was  attri])iited, 
even  in  the   general  circumstances  of  the  period  and  char- 
acter of  the   reign   in  which  it  happened,  there  is  a  close 
and  singular  analogy  between  the  Great  Fire  of  London  in 
1666  and  the  Great  Fire  of  Rome  in  64.     Beginning  in  the 
crowded  i)art  of  the   city,  under   the   Palatine  and   Cc^lian 
Hills,  it  raged,  first  for   six,  and  then  again  for   three  days, 
amoniz  the   inflammable  material  of  booths  and  shops,  and 
driven  along  by  a  furious  wind,  amid  feeble  and  ill-directed 
efforts. to  check   its  course,  it  burst  irresistibly  over  palaces, 
temples,    and    porticoes,    and    amid    the    narrow   tortuous 
streets  of  old  Rome,  involving  in  a  common  destruction  the 
most  maonificent  works  of  ancient  art,  the   choicest  manu- 
scripts  of  ancient  litterature,  and  the  most  venerable  monu- 
ments of  ancient  superstition.      In  a  few  touches  of  inimit- 
able  compression,  such   as   the   stern  genius  of  the   Latm 
language  permits,  but  which   are  too   condensed  for  direct 
translation.  Tacitus  has  depicted  the  horror  of  the  scene,— 
v/ailing   of   panic-stricken  women,  the  helplessness  of  the 
very  aged  and  the  very  young,  the  passionate  eagerness  for 
themselves  and  for  others,  the   dragging  along  of  the  feeble 
or  the  waiting  for  them,   the  lingering  and  the  hurry,  the 


138 


SENECA. 


common    and  inextricable    confusion.       Many,    while   they 
looked  backward,  were  cut  off  by  the  flames  in  front  or  at 
':he  sides  ;    if  they  sought  some   neighboring  refuge,  they 
found  it  in  the  grasp  of  the  conflagration  ;    if  they  hurried 
to  some    mo:e   distant    spot,    that    too    was    found  to  be 
involved  in  the  same  calamity.     At  last,  uncertain  what  to 
seek  or  what  to   avoid,  they  crowded   the   streets,  they  lay 
huddled  together  in  the  fields.      Some,  having  lost  all  their 
possessions,  died  from  the  want  of  daily  food ;  and   others, 
who   might  have  escaped  died  of    a   broken  heart    from 
the    anguish  of  being  bereaved  of  those  whom   they  had 
been  unable  to  rescue  ;  while,  to  add  to  the   universal  hor- 
ror, it  was  believed  that  all   attempts  to  repress  the  flames 
were   checked  by  authoritive   prohibition ;  nay  more,  that 
hired    incendiaries    were   seen   flinging  firebrands    in  new 
directions,  either  because  they  had  been  bidden  to  do  so,  or 
that  they  might  exercise  their  rapine  undisturbed. 

The  historians   and  anecdotists  of  the   time,  whose   ac- 
counts must  be  taken  for  what  they  are  worth,  attribute  to 
Nero  the  origin  of  the  conflagration  ;  and  it  is  certain  that 
he  did  not  return  to  Rome  until  the  fire  had  caught  the  gal- 
leries of  his   palace.      In  vain  did  he  use  every  exertion  to 
assist  the  homeless  and   ruined  population ;  in  vain  did  he 
order  food  to  be  sold  to  them  at  a  price  unprecedentedly 
low,  and   throw  open  to  them  the  monuments  of  Agrippa, 
his  own  gardens,  and  a  multitude  of  temporary  sheds.     A 
rumour  had  been  spread  that,  during  the  terrible  unfoMing 
of  that  great   "  flower  of  flame,"   he  had   mounted  to   the 
roof  of  his  distant  villa,  and  delighted  with  the  beauty  of  the 
spectacle,  exulting  in  the  safe  sensation  of  a  new  excitement, 
had  dressed  himself  in  theatrical  attire,  and  sung  to  his  harp 
a  poem  on  the  burning  of  Troy.     Such  a  heartless  mixture 


I 


THE  BECIXXIXG   OF    THE  EXD. 


139 


of  buffoonery  and  affectation  had  exasperated  tl.e  people 
too  deeply  for  forgiveness,  and  Nero  thought  it  necessary  to 
draw  off  the  general  odium  into  a  new  channel,  since 
neither  his  largesses  nor  any  other  popular  measures  suc- 
ceeded in  removing  from  himse'.f  the  ignominy  of  this  ter- 
rible suspicion.  What  follows  is  so  remarkable,  and,  to  a 
Christian  reader,  so  deeply  interesting,  that  I  will  give  it  in 
the  very  words  of  that  great  historian  whom  I  have  been  so 
closely  following. 

"  Therefore,  to   get  rid  of  this  report.  Nero  trumped  up 
an  accusation  against  a  sect,  detested  for  tlieir  atrocities, 
whom  tlie  common  people  called  Christians,  and  i.illicted  on 
them  the  most  recondite  punisliments.     Christ,  t'le  founder 
of  this  sect,  had  been  capitally  punished  by  the  Procurator 
rontius  Pilate,  in  the  reign  of  Tiberius ;  and  this  damnable 
superstition,  reprised  for  the  present,  was  again  breaking 
out,  not  only  through  Judcea,  where  the  evil  originated,  but 
even  through  th.e  City,  whither  from  all  regions  all  things 
that  are  atrocious  or  shameful  flow  together  and  gain  a  fol- 
lowing.    Those,  therefore,  were  first  arrested  who  confessed 
their  "religion,  and  then  on  their  evidence  a  vast  multitude 
were  condemned,  not  so  much  on  the  charge  of  incendiarism, 
as  for  their  hatred  towards  the  human  race.     And  mockery 
was  added   to  their  death;    for  they  were   covered  in  the 
skins  of  wild  beasts   and  were  torn  to  death  by  dogs,  or 
crucified,  or  set  apart  for  burning,  and  after  the  close  of  the 
day  were  reserved  for  the   purpose  of  nocturnal  illumma- 
tion.      Nero    lent   his  own   gardens  for  the   spectacle,  and 
gave  a  chariot-race,  mingling  w.th  the  people  in  the  cos- 
tume of  a  charioteer,  or  driving  among  them  in  his  chanot ; 
by  which    conduct  he  raised  a  feeling  of  commiseration 
towards  the  sufferers,  guilty  though  they  were,  and  deserv 


140 


SEXECA, 


ing  of  the  extremest  penalties,  as  though  they  were  being 
exterm'nated,  not  for  the  pubHc  interests,  but  to  gratify  the 
savage  cruekv  of  one  man.'^ 

Such  a'e  t'le  brief  but  deeply  pathetic  particulars  which 
have  come  down  to  us  respecting  the  first  great  persecution 
of  the    Christians,  and  such    must  have   been   tlie  horr'd 
eve  nts  of  which  Seneca  was  a  contemporary,  and  probabl 
an  actual  eye-witness,  in  the  very  last  year  of  his  life.     Pr 
foundly  as,  in  all  likelihood  lie  must  have  despised  tlie  v^ 
name  of  Christian,  a  heart  so  naturally  mild  and  humane  i~ 
his  must  have  shuddered  at  the  monstrous  cruelties  devised 
against  tlie  unhappy  votaries  of  this  new  religion.     15ut  to 
the  relations  of  Christianity  with  the  Pagan  world  we  shall 
return  in  a  subsequent  chapter    and  we  must  now  hasten 
to  the  end  of  our  biography. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


THE  DEATH  OF  SENECA. 


The  false  charge  which  had  been  brought  against  Seneca, 
and  in  which  tlie  name  of  Piso  had  been   involved,  tended 
to  urge  that  nobleman  and  his  friends  into  a  real  a.ul  formida- 
ble   conspiracy.     Many  men  of  influence  and  disanction 
joined  in  it,  and  among  others  Anna;us  Lucanus.  the  celebra- 
ted poet-nephew  of  Seneca,  and  Fenius  Rufus  the  colleague 
of  Tigellinus  m  tiie  command  of  the  imperial  guards.     The 
plot  was  long  discussed,  and  many  were    admitted  into  the 
secret  which  was  nevertheless  marvellously  well  kept.     One 
of  the'  most  eager  conspirators  was  Subrius  Fiavus,  an  ou.ccr 
of  the  guards,  who  suggested  the  plan  of  stabbmg  Nero  as 
he  sang  upon  the  stage,  or    of  attacking    hnn   as  ne    went 
about  without  guards  at  night  m  the  galleries  of  h,s  burmng 
palace      Fiavus  is  even  said  to  have   cherisiied  the  design 
of  subsequently    murdering    Piso  likeu'ise,  and  of  otTermg 
the  imperial  power    to  Seneca,  with  tlie  full  cognisance  ot 
the  philosopher  himself*     However  this  may    nave  been 
_and  the   storv  has  no  probability-many  schemes  were 
discussed  and  rejected,  from  the  difficulty  of  findmg  a  man 
sufficiently  bold  and  sufticiently  in  earnest  to  put  his  own  life 
to  such    imminent  risk.      While  things  were  st.U    under 
discussion,   the   plot  was   nearly   ruined   by   the  informa- 
tion  of  Volusius   Proculus,   an    admiral   of  the   fleet,  to 

.    *  See  juv.  Sal.  viii.  212. 


142 


SENECA. 


whom  it  had  been  mentioned  by  a  freedwoman  of  the 
name  of  Ephicharis.  Although  no  sufficient  evidence 
could  be  adduced  against  her,  the  conspirators  thought 
it  advisable  to  hasten  matters,  and  one  of  them,  a  sen- 
ator named  Scoevinus,  undertook  the  dangerous  task  of 
assassination.  Plautius  Lateranus,  the  cousul-elect,  was  to 
pretend  to  offer  a  petition,  in  which  he  was  to  embrace  the 
Emperor's  knees  and  throw  him  to  the  ground,  and  then 
Scsevinus  was  to  deal  the  fatal,  blow.  The  theatrical  con- 
duct of  Scaevinus — who  took  an  antique  dagger  from  the 
Temple  of  Safety,  made  his  will,  ordered  the  dagger  to  be 
sharpened,  sat  down  to  an  unusually  luxurious  banquet, 
manumitted  or  made  presents  to  his  slaves,  showed  great 
agitation,  and  finally  ordered  ligaments  for  wounds  to  be 
prepared, — awoke  the  suspicions  of  one  of  his  freedmen 
named  Milichus,  who  hastened  to  claim  a  reward  for  reveal- 
ing his  suspicions.  Confronted  with  ^Nlilichus,  wSoevinus 
met  and  refuted  his  accusations  with  the  greatest  firmness ; 
but  whsu  M>\ichus  mentioned  among  other  things  that,  the 
day  before-  Scaevinus  had  held  a  long  and  secret  conver- 
sation with  another  friend  of  Piso  named  Natalis,  and  when 
Natalis,  on  being  summoned,  gave  a  very  different  account 
of  the  subject  of  this  conversation  from  that  which  Scaevinus 
had  given,  they  were  both  put  in  chains;  and,  unable  to 
endure  the  threats  and  the  sight  of  tortures,  revealed  the 
entire  conspiracy.  Natalis  was  the  first  to  mentioned  the 
name  of  Piso,  and  he  added  the  hated  name  of  Seneca, 
either  because  he  had  been  the  confidential  messenger  be- 
tween the  two,  or  because  he  knew  that  he  could  not  do  a 
greater  favour  to  Nero  than  by  giving  him  the  opportunity 
of  injuring  a  man  whom  he  had  long  sought  every  possible 
opportunity  to  crush.     Scaevinus,  with  equal  weakness,  ^^er- 


THE  DEATH    OF  SEX  EGA. 


143 


haps  because  he  thought  that   Natalis  had  left  nothing  to 
reveal,  mentioned    the    names  of   the    others,  and    among 
them  of  Lucan,  whose    complicity   in    the  plot  would  un- 
doabtedly  tend  to  give  greater  probability  to  the  supposed 
guilt  of  Seneca.     Lucan,  after  long  denying   all  knowledge 
of  tiie  design,  corrupted  by  the  promise    of  impunity,  was 
guiltj  of  the  incredible  baseness  of  making  up  for  the  slow- 
ness of  his    confession  by  its  completeness,  and  of  naming 
among  the  conspirators  his  chief  friend  Gallus  and  Pollio, 
and  his  o.vn  mother  Atilla.     The  woman  I^phicharis,  slave 
though  she  had  once  been,  alone  showed  the  slightest  con- 
stancy, and,  by  her  brave    unshaken   reticence    under   the 
most  excruciating    and  varied    tortures,  put    to  shame   the 
pusillanimous  treachery  of  senators  and  knights.     On  the 
second  day,  when,  with  limbs  too  dislocated  to   adnnt  ot 
her  standing,  she  was  again  brought  to  the  presence  of  her 
executioners,  she    succeeded,   by    a  sudden  movement,   m 
itrangling  herself  with  her  own  girdle. 

In  the  hurry  and  alarm  of  the  moment  the  slightest  show 
of  resolution   would  have    achieved  the  object  of  the  con- 
spiracy     Fenius  Rufus  had  not  yet  been  named  among  the 
conspirators,  and  as  he  sat  by  the  side  of  the  Emperor  and 
presided  over  the  torture  of  his  associates,  Subrnis  Havus 
made  him  a  secret  sign  to  inquire  whether  even  then  and 
there  he  should  stab  Nero.      Rufus  not  only  made  a  sign  of 
dissent,  but   actually   held    the  hand  of  Subrius  as  it   was 
.rasping  the  hilt  of  his  sword.     Perhaps  it  would  have  been 
better  for  him  if  he  had  not  done  so,  for  it  was  not  likely 
that  the  numerous  conspirators  would  long  permit  the  same 
n.an  to  be  at  once  their  accomplice  and  tl-^ercesto    their 
iud.es      Shortly  afterwards,  as  he  was  urgn.g   and  threat- 
'itL   Scxvinus  remarked,  with  a  quiet  smile,  ^^that  nobody 


144 


SEX  EC  A, 


knew  more  about  the  matter  than  he  did  himself,  and  that 
lie  had  better  show  his  gratitude  to  so  excellent  a  prince  by 
telling  all  he  knew."  The  confusion  and  alarm  of  Ru^us 
betrayed  his  consciousness  of  guilt  :  he  w^as  seized  md 
bound     on    the   spot,    and     subsequently     put     to    death. 

Meanwhile  the  fr!e;ids  of  Piso  were  urging  to  take  some 
bold  and  s::dden  step,  which,  if  it  did  not  succeed  in  retrieving 
h's  fortu^^es,  would  at  least  shed  lustre  on  his  death.  Eut  his 
somewliat  slothful  nature,  weakened  still  further  bv  aluxur- 
ious  hie,  wa ;  not  to  be  aroused,  and  he  calmly  awaited  the  end. 
It  was  customery  among  the  Roman  Emperors  at  this 
period  to  avoid  the  disgrace  and  danger  of  public  execu- 
tions by  sending  a  messenger  to  a  man's  house,  and  order- 
ing him  to  put  liimself  to  death  by  whatever  means  he  \)Tz- 
ferred.  Some  raw  recruits — for  Nero  dared  not  intrust  any 
veterans  with  the  dutv — brouiiht  the  mandate  to  Piso,  who 
proceeded  to  make  a  will  full  of  disgraceful  adulation 
towards  Nero  opened  his  veins,  and  died.  Plautius  Pater- 
anus  was  not  even  allowed  the  poor  privilege  of  choosing 
his  own  dea';h,  but,  without  time  even  to  embrace  his  child- 
ren, was  hin-ried  off  to  a  i)lace  set  apart  for  the  punishment 
of  slaves,  a:xl  the:  c  died,  without  a  word,  by  the  sword  of 
a  tribune  whom  he  knew  to  be  one  his  own  accomplices. 

Lucan,  in  the  prime  of  his  life  and  the  full  bloom  of  his 
genius,  was  believed  to  have  joined  the  plot  from  his  indig- 
nation at  the  manner  in  which  Nero's  jealousy  had  repressed 
his  poetic  fame,  and  forbidden  him  the  opportunity  of  pub- 
lic rectitations.  He  too  opened  his  veins  ;  and  as  he  felt 
the  deathful  chill  creeping  upwards  from  the  extremities  of 
his  limbs,  he  recited  some  verses  from  his  own  ''  Pharsalia," 
in  which  he  had  described  the  similar  death  of  the  soldier 
Lycidas.     They  were  his  last  words.      iHis  mother  Atilla, 


THE  DEATH  OE  SE.XECA, 


Hi 


whom  to  his  everlasting  infamy,  he  liad  betrayed,  was 
passed  over  as  a  victim  too  insignificant  for  notice,  and  was 
neither  pardoned  nor  punished. 

But,  of  all  the  many  deaths  wliich  were  brought  about  by 
this  unhappy  and  ill-managed  conspiracy,  none  caused  more 
delight  to  Nero  than  that  of  Seneca,  whom  he  was  now  able 
to  dispatch  by  the  sword,  since  he  had  been  unable  to  do 
so  by  secret  poison.     What  share  Seneca  really  had  in   the 
conspiracy  is  unknown.      If  he  were   really  cognisant  of  it, 
he  must  have  acted  v/ith  consummate  tact,  for  no   particle 
of  convincing  evidence  was  adduced  against  him.     All  that 
evea  Natalis  could  relate  was,  tliat  when  Piso  had  sent  him 
to  comijlain  to  Seneca  of  his  not  admitting  Piso  to  more  of 
his  intercourse,  Seneca  had  replied  "that  it  was  better  for 
them  both  to  hold  aloof  from  each  other,  but  that  his  own 
safety  depended  on  that  of  Piso."     A  tribune  was  sent  to 
ask  Seneca  as  to  the  truth  of  this  story,  and  found,— whidi 
was  in  itself  regarded  as   a  suspicious  circumstance,— that 
on  that  very  day  he  had  returned  from  Campania  to  a  villa 
four  miles  from  the  city.     The  tribune  arrived  in  the  even- 
in-  and  surrounded  the  villa  with  soldiers.     Seneca  was  at 
supper  with  his  wife  Paulina  and  two  friends.     He  ent.rely 
denied  the  truth  of  the  evidence,  and  said  that  -  the  only 
reason  which  he  had  assigned  to  Piso  for  seeing  so  little  of 
him  was  his  weak  health   and  love   of  retirement      Nero, 
who  knew  how  little  prone  he  was  to  flattery,  might  judge 
■    wiiether  or  no  it  was  likely  that  he,  a  man  of  consular  rank, 
would  prefer  the  safety  of  a  man  of  private  station  to  h:s 
own  "     Such  was  the  message  which  the  tnbune  took  back 
to  Nero,  w^hom  he  found  sitting  with  his  dearest  and  most 
detestable  advisers,  his  wife  Poppcea  and  his  minister  1  ige  - 
•    linus      Nero  asked  "whether   Seneca  was  preparing  a  ^ol- 


146 


SENECA, 


untary  death."     On  the  tribune  replying  tliat  he  showed  no 
gloom    or  terror   in    his    language   or    countenance,    Nero 
ordered  that  he  should  at  once  be  bidden  to  die.     The  mess- 
age   was   taken,   and   Seneca,  without   any  sign   of   alarm, 
quietly    demanded    leave    to    revise    his  will      This    was 
refused  him,  and  he  then  turned  to  his  friends  with  the  remark 
that,  as  he  was  unable  to  reward  their  merits   as  they  had 
de.erved,  he  would  bequeath  to  them  the  only,  and  yet  tlie 
most  precious,  possession  left  to  him,  namely,  tlie  example 
of  his  life,  and  if  they  were  mindful  of  it  they  would  win  the 
reputation  alike  for  integrity  and  for  faithful  friendship.     At 
the  same  time  he  checked  their  tears,  sometimes  by  his  con- 
versation, and  sometimes   with   serious  reproaches,   asking 
them  "where  were  their  precepts  of  philosophy,  and  where 
the  fortitude  under  trials  which  should  have  been  learnt 
from  the  studies  of  many  years?     Did  not  every  one  know 
the  cruelty  of  Nero?  and  wluit  was  left  for  him  to  do  but  to 
make  an  end  of  his  master  and  tutor  after  th.e  murder  of  his 
mother  and  his  brother?"     He  then  embraced  his  wife  Pau- 
lina,  and,    with    a   slight    faltering   of   his    lofty    sternness, 
begged  and  entreated  her  not  to  enter  on  an  endless  sorrow, 
but  to  endure  the  loss  of  her  husband  by  the  aid  of  those 
noble  consolations  which  she  must  derive  from  the  contem. 
plation  of  his  virtuous  life.      But  Paulina  declared  that  she 
would  die  with  him,  and  Seneca,  not  opposing  the  deed 
which  would  win  her  such  permanent  glory,  and  at  the  same 
time  unwilling  to  leave  her  to  future  wrongs,  yielded  to  her 
wish.   The  veins  of  their  arms  were  opened  by  the  same  blow  ; 
but  the  blood  of  Seneca,  impoverished  by  old  age  and  tem- 
perate living,  flowed  so  slowly  that  it  was  necessary  also  to 
open  the  veins  of  his  le-^     This  mode  of  death,  cnosen  by 
the  Romans  as  comparatively  painless,  is  in  fact  under  cer- 


TJIE  DEATH  OE  SE.VECA. 


H7 


tain   circumstances  most  agonizing.     AVorn  out   by  these 

cruel  tortures,  and  unwilling  to  weaken  his  wife's  fortitude 

by  so  dreadful  a  spectacle,  glad  at  the  same  time  to  spare 

himself  the  sight  of  /ler  sufferings,  he  persuaded  lier  to  go 

to  another  room.     Even  then  his  eloquence  did  not  fail.     It 

is  told  of  Andre  Chenier,  the  French  poet,  that  or^  his  way 

to  execution  he  asked  for  writing  materials  to  record  some 

of  the  strange  thoughts  which  filled  his  mind.     The  wish 

was  denied  him,  but  Seneca  had  ample  liberty  to  record  his 

last  utterances.     Amanuenses  were  summoned,  who  took 

down  those  dying  admonitions,  and  in  the  time  of  Tacitus 

they  still  were  extant.       To  us,   however,  th^s  interesting 

memorial  of  a  Pagan  deathbed  is  irrevocably  lost. 

Nero,  meanwhile,  to  whom  the  news  of  tliese  circum- 
stances' was  taken,  having  no  disHke  to  Paulina,  and 
unwilling  to  incur  the  odium  of  too  much  bloodshed,  ordered 
her  death  to  be  prohibited  and  her  wounds  to  be  bound. 
She  was  already  unconscious,  but  her  slaves  and  freedmen 
succeeded  in  saving  her  life.  She  lived  a  few  years  longer, 
cherishing  her  husband's  memory,  and  bearmg  m  the 
attenuation  of  her  frame,  and  the  ghastly  i>allor  of  her  coun- 
tenance, the  lasting  proofs  of  that  deep  affection  which  had 
characterised  their  married  life. 

Seneca  was  not  yet  dead,  and,  to  shorten  these  protracted 
and  useless  sufferings,  he  begged  his  friend  and  physician 
Statins  Ann^us  to  give  him  a  draught  of  hemlock  the  same 
poison  by  which  the  great  philosopher  of  A^^-s  had  been 
put  to  death.  But  his  limbs  were  already  cold  and  l.e 
drlght  proved  fruitless.  He  then  entered  a  bath  ot  ho 
tZ  .  nnlling  the  .lave,  who  stood  »=.re„  .»  l™.  -.h 
the  words  that  he  was  pouring  a  libation  to  Jupiter  the  Lib- 


148 


SENECA, 


erator.*  Even  the  warm  water  failed  to  make  the  blood 
flow  more  speedily,  and  he  was  finally  carried  into  one  of 
those  vapour  batlis  which  the  Romans  called  sudatoria,  and 
stifled  with  its  steam.  His  body  was  burned  privately, 
without  any  of  the  usual  ceremonies.  Such  had  been  his 
own  wish,  expressed,  not  after  the  fall  of  his  fortunes,  but  at 
a  time  when  his  thoughts  had  been  directed  to  his  latter  end, 
in  the  zenith  of  his  great  wealth  and  conspicuous  power. 

So  died  a  Pagan  philosopher,  whose  life  must  always  ex- 
cite our  interest  and  pity,  although  we  cannot  apply  to  him 
the  titles  of  great  or  good.     He  w^as  a  man  of  high  genius, 
of  great  susceptibility,  of  an  ardent  and  generous  tempera- 
ment, of  far-sighted  and  sincere  humanity.      Some  of   his 
sentiments  are   so  remarkable  for  their  moral  beauty  and 
profundity  that  they  forcibly  remind  us  of  the  expressions  of 
St.  Paul.     But  Seneca  fell  infinitely  short  of  his  own  high 
standard,  and  has  contemptuously  been  called  ''the  father 
of  all  them  that  wear  ^hovel  hats."     Inconsistency  is  written 
on  the  entire  history  of  his  life,  and  it   has  earned  him  the 
scathing  contempt  with  which  many  writers  have  treated  his 
memory.     '*  The   business   of   a    philosopher,"    says    Lord 
Macaulay,  in  his  most  e^coruful  strain,  'Svas  to  declaim   in 
praise  of  poverty,  with  two  millions  sterling  out  at  usury ;  to 
meditate  epigrammatic  conceits  about  the  evils  of  luxury  in 
gardens  which  moved  the  envy  of  sovereigns ;  to  rant  about 
liberty  while  fawning  on  the  insolent   and   pampered  freed- 
men  of  a  tyrant ;  to  celebrate  the  divine  beauty  of  virtue 
with  the  same  pen  which  had  just  before  written  a  defence 
of  the  murder  of  a  mother  by  a  son."     "  Seneca,"  says  Nie- 

*  Sicco  Polentone,  an  Italian,  who  wrote  a  Life  of  Seneca  (d.  1461), 
makes  Seneca  a  secret  Christian,  and  represents  this  as  an  invocation  of 
Christ,  and  says  that  he  baptized  himself  with  the  water  of  the  bath  1 


THE  DEATH  OF  SE.XECA, 


149 


buhr,  '^was  an  accomplished  man  of  the  world,  who  occu- 
pied himself  very  much  with  virtue,  and  may  have  con- 
sidered himself  to  be  an  ancient  Stoic.  He  certainly  be- 
lieved that  he  was  a  most  ingenious  and  virtuous  philoso- 
pher ;  but  he  acted  on  the  principle  that,  as  far  as  he  him- 
self was  concerned,  he  could  dispense  with  the  laws  of 
morality  which  he  laid  down  for  others,  and  that  he  might 
give  way  to  his  natural  propensities. 

In  Seneca's  life,  then,  we    see   as  clearly  as  in  those  of 
many  professing  Christians  that  it  is  impossible  to  be  at 
once  worldly  and  righteous.     Seneca's  utter  failure  was  due 
to  the  vain  attempt  to  combine  in  his  own  person  two  oppo- 
site   characters— that   of  a    Stoic  and   that  of  a  courtier. 
Had  he  been  a  true   philosopher,  or  a  mere  courtier,  he 
would  have  been  happier,  and  even  more  respected.     To  be 
both   was    absurd:    hence,    even   in  his    writings,    he    was 
driven  into  inconsistency.      He  is  often  compelled  to  aban- 
don the  lofty  utterances  of  Stoicism,  and  to  charge  philo- 
sophers with  ignoronce  of  life.     In  his  treatise  on  a  Happy 
Tife  he  is  obliged  to  introduce  a  sort  of  indirect  autobio- 
graphical apology  for  his  wealth  and  position.*     In  spile  of 
his  lofty  pretensions  to  simplicity,  in  spite  of  that  sort  of 
amateur  asceticism  which,  in  common  with  other  weathy 
Romans,  he  occasionally  i)ractised,  in  spite  of  his  fmal  oiler 
to  abandon  his  entire  patrimony  to  the   Emperor,  we   fear 
that  he  cannot  be  acquitted  of  an  almost  insatiable  avarice. 
We  need  not  indeed  believe   the  fierce  calumnies  which 
charged  him  with   exhausting  Italy  by  a  boundless  usury, 
and  even  stirring  up  a  war  in  Britain  by  the  seventy  of  his 
exactions  ;  but  it  is  quite  clear  that  he  deserved  the  title  o 
Prcedtves,  "  the  over-wealthy,"   by  which  he  has  been  so 
*  See  Ad.  Polyb.  37  :  Ep,  75  ;  De  Vtt.  Beat,  17,  18,  22. 


^^ 


ISO 


SENECA. 


pointedly  signalized.  It  is  strange  that  the  most  splendid 
intellects  should  so  often  have  sunk  under  the  slavery  of 
this  meanest  vice.  In  the  Bible  we  read  how  the  "rewards 
of  divination"  seduced  from  his  allegiance  to  God  the 
splendid  enchanter  of  Mesopotamia  : 

*^  In  outline  dim  and  vast 

Their  fearful  shadow  s  cast 
The  giant  form  of  Empires  on  their  way 

To  ruin  : — one  by  one 

They  tower  and  they  are  gone, 
Yet  in  the  prophet's  soul  the  dreams  of  avarice  stay. 

^'  No  sun  or  star  so  bright. 

In  all  the  world  of  light, 
That  they  should  draw  to  heaven  his  downward  eye  : 

He  hears  the  Almighty's  word, 

He  sees  the  angel's  sword, 
Yet  low  upon  the  earth  his  heart  and  treasure  lie." 

And  in  Seneca  we  see  some  of  the  most  glowing  pictures 
of  the  nobility  of  poverty  combined  with  the  most  question- 
able avidity  in  the  pursuit  of  wealth.  Yet  how  completely 
did  he  sell  himself  for  naught.  It  is  the  lesson  which  we 
see  in  every  conspicuously  erring  life,  and  it  was  illustrated 
less  than  three  years  afterwards  in  the  terrible  fate  of  the 
tyrant  who  had  driven  him  to  death.  For  a  short  period  of 
his  life,  indeed.  Seneca  was  at  the  summit  of  power;  yet, 
courtier  as  he  was,  he  incurred  the  hatred,  the  suspicion, 
and  the  panishment  of  all  the  three  Emperors  dunng  wliose 
reigns  his  manhood  was  passed.  ''Of  all  unsuccessful 
men,"  says  Mr.  Froude,  ''in  every  shape,  whether  divine  or 
human,  or  devih^h,  there  is  none  equal  to  Bunyan's  Mr. 
I  acing-both-ways— the  fellow  with  one  eye  on  heaven  and 
one  on  earth— who  sincerely  preaches  one  thing  and  sm- 
ce.ely  does  another,  and  from  the  intensity  of  his  unreality 


THE  DEATH  OE  SEAECA, 


IS! 


is  unable  either  to  see  or  feel  the  contradiction.     He  is  sub- 
stantially tr}ing  to  cheat  both  God  and  the  devil,  and  is  in 
reality  only  cheating  himself  and  his  neighbours.     This  of 
all  characters  upon  the  earth  appears  to  us  to  be  the  one  of 
which  there    is    no  hope  at    all,  a    charecter    becoming    in 
these  days    alarmingly   abundant;  and  the  aboundance  of 
which  makes    us  find  even  in  a  Reineke  an   inexpressible 
relief."      And,    in    point    of     fact,    the    inconsistency    of 
Seneca's     life    was   a  conscious    inconsistency.      "  To   the 
student,"  he  says,  ''who  professes  his  wish  to  rise   to  a 
loftier   grade    of  virtue,  I    would   answer   that   this  is  my 
7visk  also,    but   I    dare  not  hope  it.      /    am   preoccupied 
ivith  vices.     All  I  require  of  myself  is,  not  to  be  equal  to 
the  best,  but  only  to   be  better  than  the  bad!'     No   doubt 
Seneca   meant   this   to   be    understood  merely   formodest 
depreciation ;  but  it    was    far   truer   than   he   would   have 
liked  seriously  to  confess.     He  must  have  often  and  deeply 
felt  that  he  was  not  living   in   accordance   with  the  light 

which  was  in  him. 

It  would  indeed  be  cheap  and  easy,  to  attribute  the  gen- 
eral inferiority    and    the  many  shortcomings  of   Seneca's 
life  and  character  to  the  fact  that  he  was  a  Pagan,  and  to 
suppose  that  if  he  had  known  Christianity  he  would  neces- 
sarily have   attained  to  a  loftier  ideal.      But  such  a  style 
of  reasoning  and  inference,  commonly  as  it  is  adopted  for 
rhetorical  purposes,  might  surely  be  refused  by  any  intelh- 
gent  child.     A  more  intellectual  assent  to  the  lessons  of 
Christianity   would    have     probably   been    but    of    little 
avail  to   inspire  in    Seneca  a  nobler  life.     The  fact  is,  that 
neither  the  gift  of  genius  nor  the  knowledge  of  Christianity 
are  adequate  to  the  ennoblement  of  the  human  heart,  nor 
does  the  grace  of  God   flow  through    the  channels  of  sur- 


15^ 


SENECA. 


passing  intellect  or  of  orthodox  belief.  Men  there  have  been 
in  all  a^^es.  Pagan  no  less  than  Christian,  who  with  scanty 
mental  enhghtenment  and  spiritual  knowledge  have  yet 
lived  holy  and  noble  lives :  men  there  have  been  in  all  ages.^ 
Christian  no  less  than  Pagan,  who  with  consummate  gifts 
and  profound  erudition  have  disgraced  some  of  the  noblest 
words  which  ever  were  uttered  by  some  of  the  meanest 
lives  which  were  ever  lived.  In  the  twelfth  century  was 
there  any  mind  that  shone  more  brightly,  was  there  any 
eloquence  which  flowed  more  mightily,  than  that  of  Peter 
Abelard  ?  Yet  Abelard  sank  beneath  the  meanest  of  his 
scholastic  cotemporaries  in  the  degradation  of  his  career  as 
much  as  he  towered  above  the  highest  of  them  in  the  grand- 
eur of  his  genius.  In  the  seventeenth  century  was  there 
any  philosopher  more  profound,  any  moralist  more  elevated, 
than  Francis  Bacon  ?  Yet  Bacon  could  flatter  a  tyrant, 
and  betrayed  a  friend,  and  receive  a  bribe,  and  be  one  of 
the  latest  of  English  judges  to  adojjt  the -brutal  expedient 
of  enforcing  confession  by  the  exercise  of  torture.  If 
Seneca  defended  the  murder  of  Agrippina,  Bacon  black- 
ened the  character  of  Essex.  ''What  I  would  I  do  not; 
but  the  thing  that  I  would  not,  that  I  do,"  might  be  the 
motto  for  many  a  confession  of  the  sins  of  genius  ;  and 
Seneca  need  not  blush  if  we  compare  him  with  men  who 
were  his  equals  in  intellectual  power,  but  whose  "  means  of 
grace,"  whose  privileges,  whose  knowledge  of  the  truth, 
were  infinitely  higher  than  his  own.  Let  the  noble  con- 
stancy of  his  death  shed  a  light  over  his  memory  which  may 
dissij-ate  something  of  those  dark  shades  which  rest  on  por- 
tions of  his  history.  We  think  of  Abelard,  humble,  silent, 
patient,  God-fearing,  tended  by  the  kindly-hearted  Peter  in 
the  peaceful  gardens  of  Clugny ;  we   think   of  Bacon,  ne 


or. 


THE  DEATH   OE  SENECA. 


153 


lected,  broken,  and  despised,  dying  of  the  chill  caught  in  a 
philosophical  experiment  and  leaving   his   memory  to   the 
judgment  of  posterity;  let  us  think  of  Seneca,  quietly  yield- 
ing   to    his  detiny   without  a   murmur,  cheering  the  con- 
stancy of  the  mourners  round  him  during  the  long  agonies 
of  his  enforced  suicide   and  dictating  some  of  the  purest 
utterances  of  Pagan  wisdom  almost  with  his  latest  breath. 
The  lano-uage   of  his  great  contemporary,  the  Aposde  St. 
Paul,  will  be  t  help  us  to  understand  liis  position.      He  was 
one  of  those  who  was  scckhi:^  the  Lord,  if  haply  he  mu-ht 
feelafta-  Jlim,  and  find  Ilim,  thou-h  lie  be  not  fir  from 
every  one  of  us  :  for  in   Hin   we  live,  and  move,  and  have 
our  being. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


SENECA  AND  ST.   PAUL. 


In  the  spring  of  the  year  6i,  not  long  after  the  time  when 
the  murder  of  Agrippina,  and  Seneca's  justifications  of  it, 
had  been  absorbing  the  attention  of  the  Roman  world, 
there  disembarked  at  Puteoli  a  troop  of  prisoners,  whom 
the  Procurator  of  Judaea  had  sent  to  Rome  under  the 
charge  of  a  centurion.  Walking  among  them,  chained  and 
weary,  but  affectionately  tended  by  two  younger  compan- 
ions,* and  treated  with  profound  respect  by  little  deputa- 
tions of  friends  who  met  him  at  Appii  Forum  and  the 
Three  Taverns,  was  a  man  of  mean  presence  and  weather- 
beaten  aspect,  who  was  handed  over  like  the  rest  to  the 
charge  of  Burrus,  the  Praefect  of  the  Praetorian  Guards. 
Learning  from  the  letters  of  the  Jewish  Procurator  that 
the  prisoner  had  been  guilty  of  no  serious  offence,!  but 
had  used  his  privilege  of  Roman  citizenship  to  ap})eal  to 
Caesar  for  protection  against  the  infuriated  malice  of  his 
co-religionists — possibly  also  having  heard  from  the  cen- 
turion JuHus  some  remarkable  facts  about  his  behaviour 
and  history — Burrus  allowed  him,  pending  the  hearing  of 
his  appeal,  to  live   in  his   own    hired   apartments.^     This 

*  Luke  and  Aristarchus.         t  Acts  xxiv.  23,  xxv-ii.  3. 
t  Acts  xxviii.  30,  tv  idicp  juidOoojiiaTi. 


SENECA   AND  ST.   PAUL. 


155 


lodging  was  in  all  probability  in  that  quarter  of  the  city 
opposite  the  island  in  the   Tiber,  which  corresponds  to  the 
modern  Trastevere.     It  was  the  resort  of  the  very  lowest  and 
meanest  of  the  populace — that  promiscuous  jumble  of  all 
nations  which  makes  Tacitus  call  Rome  at  this  time  "  the 
sewer  of  the    universe."     It  was   here  especially  that   the 
Jews  exercised  some  of  the  meanest  trades  in  Rome,  selling 
matches,  and  old  clothes,  and  broken  glass,  or  begging  and 
fortune-telling  on   the  Cestian  or   Fabrican  bridges.*     In 
one  of  these  narrow,  dark,  and  dirty   streets,  thronged   by 
the  dregs  of  the  Roman  populace,  St.  Mark  and  St.  Peter 
had  in  all  probability  lived  when  they  founded  the  little 
Christian  Church  at  Rome.     It  was  was  undoubtedly  in  the 
same  despised  locality  that  St.  Paul,— the  prisoner  who  had 
been  consigned  to  the  care  of  Burrus,— hired  a  room,  sent 
for  the  principle  Jews,  and  for  two  years  taught  to  Jews  and 
Christians,  to  any    Pagans    who   would   listen  to  him,  the 
doctrines  which  were  destined  to  regenerate  the  world. 

Any  one  entering  that  mean  and  dingy  room  would  have 
seen  a  Jew  with  bent  body  and  furrowed  countenance,  and 
with  every  appearance  of  age,  weakness,  and  disease 
chained  by  the  arm  to  a  Roman  soldier.  But  it  is  mipossi- 
ble  that,  had  they  deigned  to  look  closer,  they  should  not 
also  have  seen  the  gleam  of  genius  and  enthusiasm  the  fire 
of  inspiration,  the  serene  light  of  exalted  hope  and  daunt- 
less courage  upon  those  withered  features.  And  though 
/..  was  chained,  "  the  Word  of  God  was  not  chained  t 
Had  they  listened  to  the  words  which  he  occasionally  dic- 

*  Mart  Ep.  i  42  :  Juv.  xiv.  186.  In  these  few  paragraphs  I  follow 
M.  ^^^^  ras  wen  as  .any  other  authors)  hes  col^^^^^^^^  many 
of  the  principal  passages  in  wh.ch  Roman  wnters  ^^^^^y;^;;^  J.^^; 
and  Christians. 


156 


SEX  EC  A. 


tated,  or  overlooked  the  large  handwriting  wliich  alone  his 
weak  eyesight  and  bodily  infirmities,  as  well  as  the  incon- 
venience of  his  chains,  permitted,  they  would  have  heard  or 
read  the  immortal  utterances  which  strengthened  the  faith 
of  the  nascent  and  struggling  Churches  in  E[)hesus,  Philippi, 
and  Colossae,  and  which  have  since  been  treasured  among 
the  most  inestimable  possessions  of  a  Christian  world. 

His  efforts  were  not  unsuccessful;  his  misfortunes  were 
for  the  furtherance  of  the  Gospel ;  his  chains  were  manifest 
*' in  all  the  palace,  and  in  all  otlier  places;"*  and  many 
waxing  confident  by  his  bonds  were  much  more  bold  to 
speak  the  word  without  fear.  Let  us  not  be  misled  by 
assuming  a  wrong  explanation  of  these  words,  or  by  adopt- 
ing the  Middle  Age  traditions  which  made  St.  Paul  con- 
vert some  of  the  immediate  favourites  of  the  P^mperor, 
and  electrify  with  his  eloquence  an  admiring  Senate.  The 
word  here  rendered  "palace"!  i^^^y  indeed  have  that 
meaning,  for  we  know  that  among  the  early  converts  were 
*Hhey  of  Ciiesar's  household  ;"  %  but  these  were  in  all  proba- 
bility— if  not  certainly — Jews  of  the  lowest  rank,  who  were, 
as  we  know,  to  be  found  among  the  /lundrtds  of  unfortu- 
nates of  every  age  and  country  \vho  composed  a  Roman 
fami/ia.  And  it  is  at  least  equally  probable  that  the  word 
''proetorium"  simply  means  the  barrack  of  that  detachment 
of  Roman  soldiers  from  which  Paul's  gaolers  were  taken  in 
turn.  In  such  labours  St.  Paul  in  all  probability  spent  two 
years  (6i — 63),  during  which  occurred  the  divorce  of  Octavia, 
the  marriage  with  Poppcea,  the  death  of  Burrus,  the  disgrace 
of  Seneca,  and  the  many  subsequent  infamies  of  Nero. 

♦  Phil.  i.  12. 

t  kv  oXco  rcj  npaiTQDpiaj. 

J  Phil.  iv.  22. 


SEX  EC  A    AXD   ST.  PAUE 


157 


It  is  out  of  such  materials  that  some  early  Christian 
forger  thought  it  edifying  to  compose  the  work  which  is 
supposed  to  contain  the  correspondence  of  Seneca  and  St. 
Paul.  The  undoubted  spuriousness  of  that  work  is  now 
universally  admitted,  and  indeed  the  forgery  is  too  clumsy 
to  be  even  worth  reading.  But  it  is  worth  while  inquiring 
whether  in  the  circumstances  of  the  time  there  is  even  a 
bare  possibility  that  Seneca  should  ever  have  been  among 
the  readers  or  the  auditors  of  Paul. 

And  the  answ^er  is.  There  is   absolutely  no   such   proba- 
bility.    A  vivid  imagination  is  naturally  attracted  by  the 
points  of  contrast   and  resemblance   offered  by  two   such 
characters,  and  we  shall  see  that  there  is  a  singular  likeness 
between  many  of  their  sentiments  and  expressions.     But 
this  was  a  period  in  which,  as  M.  Villemain  observes,  "  from 
one  extremity  of  the   social  world   to   the   other  truths  met 
each  other  without  recognition."     Stoicism,  noble  as  were 
many  of  its  precepts,  lofty  as  was  the  morality  it  professed, 
deeply  as  it  was  imbued  in  many  respects  with  a  semi- 
Christians  piety,   looked  upon   Christianity   with   profound 
contempt.     The    Christians  dishked  the   Stoics,  the   Stoics 
despised  and  persecuted  the  Christians.     ''The  world  knows 
nothing   of  its  greatest  men."     Seneca  would  have  stood 
aghast  at  the  very  notion  of  his  receiving  the  lessons,  still 
n^ore  of  his  adopting  the   religion,  of  a  poor,  accused,  and 
wandering    Jew.      The  haughty,  wealthy,   eloquent,   pros- 
perous, powerful  philosopher  would  have  smiled  at  the  no- 
tion that  any  future  ages  would  suspect  him  of  having  bor- 
rowed any  of  his  polished  and  epigrammatic  lessons  of  phil- 
osophic morals  or  religion  from   one  whom,  if  he  heard  of 
him,  he  would  have  regarded  as  a  poor  wretch,  half  fanatic 
and  half  barbarian. 


158 


SEXECA, 


We  learn  from  St.  Paul  himself  that  the  early  converts  of 
Christianity  were  men  in  the  very  depths  of  poverty,*  aid 
that  its  preachers  were  regarded  as  fools,  and  weaV,  aid 
were  despised,  and  naked,  a.d  buTeted — persecuted  and 
homeless  labourers — a  spectacle  to  the  world,  and  to  angels, 
and  to  men,  ''  made  as  the  filth  of  the  earth  and  the  o!T- 
scouring  of  all  things."  We  know  that  their  preaching  was 
to  the  Greeks  "  foolishness,"  and  that,  when  they  spoke  of 
Jesus  and  the  resurrection,  their  hearers  mocked!  and  jeered. 
And  these  indications  are  more  than  confirmed  by  many 
contemporary  passages  of  ancient  writers.  We  have  already 
seen  the  violent  expressions  of  hatred  which  the  ardent  and 
high-toned  soul  of  Tacitus  thought  applicable  to  the  Chris- 
tians ;  and  such  language  is  echoed  by  Roman  writers  of 
every  character  and  class.  The  fact  is  that  at  this  time  and 
for  centuries  afterwards  the  Romans  regarded  the  Christians 
with  such  lordly  indifference  that — like  Festus,  and  Felix 
and  Seneca's  brother  GalHo — they  never  took  the  trouble 
to  distinguish  them  from  the  Jews.  The  distinction  was 
not  fully  realized  by  the  Pagan  world  till  the  cruel  and 
wholesale  massacre  of  the  Christians  by  the  pseudo-Messiah 
Barchochebas  in  the  reign  of  Adrian  opened  their  eyes  to 
the  fact  of  the  irreconcilable  differences  which  existed  be- 
tween the  two  religions.  And  pages  might  be  filled  with 
the  ignorant  and  scornful  allusions  which  the  heathen 
applied  to  the  Jews.  They  confused  them  with  the  whole 
degraded  mass  of  Egyptian  and  Oriental  impostors  and 
brute-worshippers ;  they  disdained  them  as  seditious,  turbu- 
lent,   obstinate,    and   avaricious;   they  regarded   them    as 

*  2  Cor.  viii.  2. 

t'Kx/l£i;a?or,  Acts  xvii.  32.    The  word  expresses  the  most  profound 
and  unconcealed  contempt. 


SENECA    AXD   ST,   PAUL. 


159 


mainly  composed  of  the  very  meanest  slaves  out  of  the  gross 
and  abject  multitude;  their  proselytism   they  considered  as 
the   cladestine    initiation  into  some  strange  and  revolting 
mystery,  which  involved  as  its  direct  teachings  contempt  of 
the  gods,  and  the  negation  of  all  patriotism  and  all  family 
affection;  they  firmly  beUeved  that    they  worshipped  the 
head  of  an  ass ;  they  thought  it  natural  that  none  but  the 
vilest  slaves  and  the  silliest  woman  should  adopt  so  misan- 
thropic   and  degraded    a   superstition;    they   characterized 
their  customs  as  ^^  absurd,  sordid  foul,  and  depraved,"   and 
their   nation    as    "  prone    to   superstition,  opposed  to  relig- 
ion." *     And  as  far  as  they  made   any  distinction  between 
Jews  and  Christians,  it  was  for  the  latter  that  they  reserved 
their  choicest  and  most  concentrated  epithets  of  hatred  and 
abuse.     A  "  new,"  ^'pernicious,"  ''detestable,"  "execrable," 
superstition  is  the  only  language  with  which   Suetonius  and 
Tacitus  vouchsafe  to  notice  it.     Seneca-tliough  he  must 
have  heard  the  name  of  Christian  during  the  reign  of  Clau- 
dius (when   both  they  and  the  Jews  were   expelled  from 
Rome,  "because  of  their  perpetual  turbulence,  at  the  msti- 
gation  of  Chrestus,"  as  Suetonius  ignorantly  observed),  and 
during   the  Neronian  persecution— never   once   alludes   to 
them   and  only  mentions    the    Jews    to  apply    a   few   con- 
temptuous remarks  to  the  idleness  of  their  sabbaths,  and  to 
call  them  "  a  most  abandoned  race." 

l^he  reader  will  now  judge  whether  there  is  the  slightest 
probabilitv  that  Seneca  had  any  intercourse  with  St.  I  aul, 
or  was  likely  to  have  stooped  from  his  superiluity  of  wealth 
and  pride  of  power,  to  take  lessons  from  obscure  and 
despised  slaves  in  the  purlieus  inhabited  by  the  crowded 
households  of  Coesar  or  Narcissus. 

♦  Tac.  Ilist.  i.  13  :  ib-  v.  5  :  J^v.  xiv.  85  :  Ters.  v.  190,  &c. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

senega's  resemblances  to  scripture. 

And  yet  in  a  very  high  sense  of  the  word  Seneca  may  be 
called,  as  he  is  called  in  the  title  of  this  book,  a  Seeker  after 
God;  and  the  resemblances  to  the  sacred  writings  which 
may  be  found  in  the  pages  of  his  works  are  numerous  and 
striking.  A  few  of  these  will  probably  interest  our  readers, 
and  will  put  them  in  a  better  position  for  understanding 
how  large  a  measure  of  truth  and  enlightenment  had  re- 
warded the  honest  search  of  the  ancient  philosophers.  We 
will  place  a  few  such  passages  side  by  side  with  the  texts  of 
Scripture  which  they  resemble  or  recall. 

I.    God's  Ifidwelling  Presence, 

''  Know  ye  not  that  ye  are  the  temple  of  God,  and  that 
the  Spirit  of  God  dwelleth  in  you  ?"  asks  St.  Paul  (i  Cor.  iii. 
1 6). 

''  God  is  near  yoii^  is  with  you^  is  7vithi?i  you^'  writes 
Seneca  to  liis  friend  Lucihus,  in  the  41st  of  those  Letters 
which  abound  in  his  most  valuable  moral  reflections;  '"a 
sacred  Spirit  diuel/s  within  tis^  the  obser7)er  and  guardian  of 
all  our  evil  and  our  good  .  .  .  there  is  ?to  good  ?na?i  without 
Godr 


SENECA'S   KESEMBLEXlE    TO  S.RIPTrRE,        161 

And  again  {Ep.  73) :  '^  Do  you  icondi-  that  man  goes  to 
the  gods  ?  God  conws  to  men  :  ?iay^  7i'hat  is  yet  nearer^  He 
comes  into  men.     No  good  inind  is  holy  without  GodT 

2.    The  Eye  of  God, 

^'  All  things  are  naked  and  opened  unto  the  eyes  of  Him 
with  whom  we  have  to  do."     (Heb.  iv.  13.) 

''  Pray  to  thy  Father  which  is  in  secret ;  and  thy  Father 
which  seeth  in  secret  shall  reward  thee  openly."     (Matt.  vi. 

6.) 

Seneca  (  On  Frovidence,  i) :  ''  It  is  no  advantage  that  con- 
science is  shut  within  us  ;   we  lie  open  to  Godl' 

Letter  ^^:  ''  What  advantage  is  it  that  anything  is  hid- 
den from  man  ?  Nothing  is  closed  to  God :  He  is  present 
to  our  minds,  and  enters  into  our  central  thoughtsl' 

Letter  ^t,  :   "  We  must  live  as  if  we  were  living  in  sight  of 
all  7nen  ;  we  must  think  as  though  some  one  could  and  can 
gaze  into  our  inmost  breastl' 

3.    God  is  a  Spirit, 

St.  Paul,  '•  We  ought  not  to  think  that   the   God-head  is 
like  unto  gold,  or  silver,  or  stone,  graven  by  art  and  man's 

device."     (Acts  xvii.  29.) 

Seneca  {Letter  i^^  :   ''  I'.venfrom  a  corner  it  is possiole  to 

sprint  up  into  heaven  :  rise,  therefore,  and  form  thyself  into  a 

fashion  worthy  of  God;  thou  canst  not  do  this,  however,  witn 

gold  and  silver :  an  image  like  to  God  cannot  be  formed  out 

of  such  ?naterials  as  these,'' 


1 62 


SENECA . 


4.   Imiiathig   God. 


"Be  ye  therefore  followers  {i^LmvT^ai,  imitators)  of  God, 
as  dear  children."     (Eph.  v.  i.) 

"  He  that  in  these  things  [righteousness,  peace,  joy  in  the 
Holy  Ghost]  serveth  Christ  is  acceptable  to  God."     (Rom. 

xir.  18.) 

Seneca  {Letter  95) :  "  Do  you  wish  to  reiider  the  gods  pro- 
pitious ?  Be  virtuous.  To  honour  thetn  it  is  enough  to  imi- 
tate them.'" 

Letter  124:  ''  Let  man  aim  at  the  good  which  belongs  to 
him.  What  is  this  good  J  A  mind  reformed  and  pure,  the 
imitator  of  God,  raising  itself  above  things  human,  confining 
all  its  desires  within  itself" 

5.  Llypoc rites  like  whited  Sepulchres. 

"  Woe  unto  you.  Scribes  and  Pharisees,  hypocrites !  for 
ye  are  like  unto  whited  sepulchres,  which  indeed  appear 
beautiful  outward,  but  are  within  full  of  dead  men's  bones, 
and  of  all  uncleanness."     (Matt,  xxiii.  27.) 

Seneca:  "-  Those  whom  you  regard  as  happy,  if  you  saw 
them,  not  in  their  externals,  but  in  their  hidden  aspect,  are 
7vretched,  sordid,  base ;  like  their  oivn  walls  adorned  out- 
wardly. It  is  no  solid  and  genuine  felicity  ;  it  is  a  plaster, 
and  that  a  thin  one  ;  and  so,  as  long  as  they  can  stand  and 
be  seen  at  their  pleasure,  they  shine  and  impose  on  us:  whoi 
anythifig  has  fallen  which  disturbs  and  uncovers  them,  it  ts 
evident  how  much  deep  and  real  foulness  an  extraneous 
splendour  has  concealed." 


I 


SENECA'S  RESEMBLANCES    TO   SCRIPTURE.       \(,^ 
6.    Teaching  compared  to  Seed. 

"•  But  other  fell  into  good  ground,  and  brought  forth  fruit ; 
some  an  hundred-fold,  some  sixty-fold,  some  thirty-fold." 
(Matt.  xiii.  8.) 

Seneca  (Letter  38):  "  Words  must  be  soicn  like  seed ; 
ivhich,  although  it  be  small,  when  it  hath  found  a  suitable 
ground,  unfolds  its  strength,  and  from  very  small  size  is  ex- 
panded into  the  largest  i?icrease.  Reason  does  the  same.  .  . 
The  things  spoken  are  fe7Cf  ;  but  if  the  mi? id  have  received 
them  well,  they  gain  strength  and  grozu." 

7.  All  Men  are  Sinners, 

*'  If  we  say  that  we  have  no  sin,  we  deceive  ourselves 
and  the  truth  is  not  in  us."  (i  John  i.  8.) 

Seneca  ( On  Anger,  i.  14,  ii.  27):  ''''If  7oe  luish  to  be  fust 
fudges  of  all  things,  let  us  first  persuade  ourselves  of  this : — 
t/iat  there  is  not  one  of  us  icithout  fault.  .  .  .  Av  man  is 
found  who  can  acquit  himself ;  and  he  zvho  calls  hiinself  in- 
nocent does  so  witJi  reference  to  a  witness,  and  not  to  his  con- 


science. 


>> 


8.  Avarice, 

*'The  love  of  money  is  the  root  of  all  evil."  (i  Tim.  vi. 
10.) 

Seneca  ( On  Tranquillity  of  Soul,  8)  /  ''  Riches.  .  ,  .  the 
greatest  source  of  hunuvi  trouble." 

"  Be  content  with  such  things  as  ye  have."     (Heb.  xiii. 

50 


164 


SEX  EC  A, 


I 


"  Having  food  and  raiment,  let  us  be  therewitl.  content." 

(i  Tim.  vi.  8.)  . .         ^         /    . 

Seneca  {Lctkr  114):  "  ^ '.'  shall  he  wise  ij  we  desire  but 
little  ■  if  each  man  takes  count  of  himself  and  at  the  same 
time  'measures  his  own  body,  he  will  know  how  little  it  can 
contain,  and  for  how  short  a  timer 

Letter  no:  "  We  have  polenta,  we  have  water;  let  us 
challenge  Ju filer  himself  to  a  comparison  of  bliss  I" 

"  Godliness  witli  contentment  is  great  gam."     (i  Tim.  vi. 

Seneca  {Letter  no):  "  Why  are  you  struck  with  wonder 
and  astonishment  ?  It  is  all  display  !  Those  things  are 
shown,  not  possessed  .  .  .  Turn  thyself  rather  to  the  true 
riches,  learn  to  be  content  7cnth  little." 

"  It  is  easier  for  a  camel  to  go  through  the  eye  of  a 
needle,  than  for  a  rich  man  to  enter  into  the  kingdom  of 

God."  (Matt.  xix.  24.) 

Seneca  {Letter  20) :  "  Lie  is  a  high-souled  man  who  sees 
riches  spread  around  him,  and  hears  rather  than  feels  that 
they  are  his.  It  is  much  not  to  be  corrupted  by  fellowship 
with  riches :  great  is  he  who  in  the  midst  of  wealth  is  poor, 
but  safer  he  who  has  no  wealtli  at  all. 

9.    The  Duty  of  Kindness. 

*' Be  kindly   affectioned  one    to    another   with   brotherly 

love.''     (Rom.  xii.  lo.) 

Seneca  ( On  Anger,  i.  5) :   ''  Man  is  born  for  mutual  as- 

sistanccr 

"  Thou  shalt  love  thy  neighbour  as   thyself."      (Lev.  xiv. 

18.)       - 


SENECA'S  RESEMBLANCES    TO   SCRIPTURE.       165 

Letter  48  :  "  You  must  live  for  another,  if  you  wish  to  live 
for  yourself 

On  Anger,  iii.  43  :  ''  While  7c<e  are  among  men  let  us  cul- 
tivate kindness  ;  let  us  not  he  to  any  ma/i  a  cause  either  of 
peril  or  of  fear.'' 

ID.    Our  eonnno/i  Membership. 

"  Ye  are  tlie  body  of  Christ,  and  members  in  particular." 
(i  Cor.  xii.    27.) 

"  We  being  many  are  one  body  in  Christ,  and  every  one 
members  one  of  another."     (Rom.  xii.  5.) 

Seneca  {Letter  95) :  '*  L>o  we  teach  that  he  should  stretch 
his  hand  to  the  shipiurecked,  shoio  his  path  to  the  wanderer, 
divide  his  bread  with  the  hungry  l  ,  ,  ,  qahen  /  could  briefly 
deliver  to  Jiiin  t/w  for  inula  of  human  duty  :  all  this  that  you 
see,  in  7L'hich  things  divine  and  human  are  included,  is  one  : 
we  are  inembers  of  one  great  bodyl' 

1 1 .   Secrecy  in  doing  Good. 

''  Let  not  thy  left  liand  know  what  thy  right  hand  doeth." 
(Matt.  vi.  3.) 

Seneca  {On   LJene/its,  ii.    11):   '^  Let  him   who  hath  con- 
ferred a  favour  \\old\\is  tongue.   .   .   .   Lji  conferrvig  a  favour 
nothing  sJiould  be  more  avoided  t/uin  pride l^ 

12.    God' s  impartial  Goodness, 

''  He  maketh  His  sun  to  rise  on  the  evil  and  on  the 
good,  and  sendeth  rain  on  the  just  and  on  the  unjust." 
(Matt.  V.  45.) 


1 66 


SENECA. 


Seneca  {On  Benefits,,  i.   i):  ''How  many  are  unworthy 
of  the  light!  and  yet  the  day  dawns  r 

Id.  vii.  31:  ''The gods  begin  to  eonfer  benefits  on  those 
7Cfho  reeog?iize  them  7iot,  they  cofitinue  the?n  to  those  7vho  are 
thankless  for  them.  .  .  .  They  distribute  their  blessings  in 
impartial  tenor  through  the  nations  and  peoples ;  .  .  they 
sprinkle  the  earth  with  timely  sJurwers,  they  stir  the  seas  with 
wi?id,  they  mark  out  the  seasons  by  the  revolution  of  the  con- 
stellations, they  temper  the  7cnnter  and  summer  by  the  inter- 
vention of  a  gentler  air!' 

r      It  would  be  a  needless  task  to  continue  these  parallels, 
because  by  reading  any  treatise  of  Seneca  a  student  might 
add  to  them  by  scores;  and  they  prove  incontestably  that, 
as  far  as   moral  illumination   was  concerned,  Seneca  ''  was 
not  far  from  the  kingdom   of  heaven."     They  have    been 
collected  by  several  writers ;  and  all  of  these  here  adduced, 
together  with  many  others,  may  be  found  in  the  pages  of 
Fleury,    Troplong,   Aubertin,   and   others.      Some    authors, 
like  M.  Fleurv,  have   endeavoured   to   show   that  they  can 
only  be  accounted  for  by  tlie  supposition   that   Seneca  had 
some  acquaintance  with  the  sacred  writings.      M.  Aubertm, 
on  the  other  hand,  has  conclusively  demonstrated  that  this 
could  not  have   been  the  case.     Many  words  and  expres- 
sions detached  from  tlieir  context  have   been  forced  into  a 
resemblance  with  the  words  of  Scripture,  when  the  context 
wholly  militates   against  its  spirit;    many  belong  to  that 
great  conunon  stock  of  moral  truths  which  had  been  elab- 
orated bv  the  conscientious  labours  of  ancient  philosophers  ; 
and  there  is  hardly  o-.e  of  the  thoughts  so  eloquently  enun- 
ciated v.'hich  may  not  be  found  even  more  nobly  and  more 
distinctly  expressed  in  the  writings  of  Plato  and  of  Cicero. 


SEXECVS  RESEMBLAXCES    TO   SCRIPTURE,       167 

In  a  subsequent  chapter  we  shall  show  that,  in  spite  of  them 
all,  the  divergences  of  Seneca  from  the  spirit  of  Christianity 
are  at  least  as  remarkab^.e  as  the  closest  of  his  resemblances ; 
but  it  will  be  more  convenient  to  do  this  when  we  have  also 
examined  the  doctrines  of  those  two  othier  great  represen- 
tatives of  spiritual  enlightenment  in  Pagan  souls,  Epictetus 
the  slave  and  Marcus  Aurelius  tlie  emperor. 

Meanwhile,  it  is  a  matter  for  rejoicing  that  writings  sue- 
as  these  give  us  a  clear  proof  tliat  in  all  ages  the  Spirit  of 
the  Lord  has  entered  into  holy  men,  and  made  them  sons 
of  God  and  prophets.  God  ''  left  not  Himself  without  with 
ness  "  among  them.  The  language  of  St.  Thomas  Aquinas, 
that  many  a  heathen  lias  had  an  ''  implicit  faith,"  is  but 
another  way  of  expressing  St.  Paul's  statement  that  ''not 
having  tlie  law  they  were  a  la\\  unto  tliemselves,  and  showed 
the  work  of  the  law  v/ritten  in  their  liearts."*  To  them  the 
Eternal  Power  and  Godhead  were  known  from  the  things 
that  do  appear,  and  alike  from  the  voice  of  consience  and 
the  voice  of  nature  they  derived  a  true,  although  a  partial 
and  inadequate,  knowledge.  To  them  'Hhe  voice  of  nature 
was  the  voice  of  God."  Their  revelation  was  the  law  of 
nature,  which  was  confirmed,  strengtliened,  and  extended, 
but  //c?/ suspended,  by  the  written  law  of  God.f 

The  knowledge  thus  derived,  i.e.  tlie  sum-total  of  relig- 
ious impressions  resulting  from  the  combination  of  reason 
and  experience,  has  l)een  called  ''natural  religion;"  the 
term  is  in  itself  a  convenient  and  unobjectionable  one,  so 
long  as  it  is  remembered  that  natural  religion  is  itself  a  reve- 
lation. No  antit/iesis  is  so  unfortunate  and  pernicious  as 
that  of  natural  with  revealed  religion.  It  is  '*  a  contrast 
rather  of  words  than  of  ideas  ;  it   is  an   opposition   of  ab- 


*  Rom.  i.  2. 


t  Hooker,  Ecti.  Pol,  iii.  8. 


1 68 


SENECA. 


stractlons  to  which  no  facts  really  correspond.       God  has 
revealed  Himself,  not  in  one  but  iu  many  ways,  not  only  by 
inspirint^  the  hearts  of  a  few,  br.t  by  vouchsafing  H,s  guid- 
ance to  all  who  seek  it.      '"The  spirit  of  man  is  the  candle 
of  the  Lord,"  and  it  is  not  religion  but  apostasy  to  deny  the 
reality  of  anv  of  God's  revelations  of  truth  to  man,  merely 
because  they  have  not  descended  through  a  smgle  channel. 
On  the  contrary,  we  ought  to  hail  with  gratitude,  mstead  of 
viewin-  with  susi.icion,  the  enunciation  by  heathen  writers 
of  truths  which  we  might  at  first  sight  have  been  d:sposed 
to  regard  as  the  special  heritage  of  Christianity.     In  1  ytlia- 
goras,  and  Socrates,  and  inato,-in  Seneca,  Epictetus,  and 
•    Marcus  Aurelius-we  see  the  light  of  heaven  struggling  its 
impeded  wav  through  clouds  of  darkness   and  ignorance ; 
we  thankfuUv  recognize  that  the  souls  of  men  in  the  Pagan 
world,  surrounded  as  they  were  by  perplexities  and  dangers, 
were  yet  enabled  to  reflect,  as  from  the  dim  surface  of  si  - 
ver  some  image  of  what  was  divine  and  true  ;  we  hail,  with 
the'  great  and  eloquent   Bossuet,  "The  Christianity  of 
Nature."     "  The  divine  image  in  man,"  says  St.  Bernard, 
"  may  be  burned,  but  it  cannot  be  burnt  out." 

And  this  is  the  pleasantest  side  on  which  to  consider  the 
Ufe  and  the  writin^:s  of  Seneca.     It  is  tnie    that  his  style 
partakes  of  the  defects  of  his  age,  that  the  brilliancy  of  his 
rhetoric  does  not  always  compensate  for  the  defectiveness 
of  his  reasoning  ;  that  he  resembles,  not  a  mirror  which 
clearlv  reflects  the  truth,  but  "  a  glass  fantastically  cut  into 
a  thousand  spangles;"  that  side  by  side  with  great  moral 
truths  we  sometimes   find  his  worst  errors,  contradictions 
and   paradoxes ;  that  his  eloquent  utterances  about  God 
often  degenerate  into  a  vague  Pantheism  ;  and  that  even  on 
the  doctrine  of  immortality  his  hold  is  too  slight  to  save 


SENECVS  RESEMBLANCES    TO   SCKIPTi'RE.      169 


him  from    waverings   and   contrad'ctions  ;*  yet  as  a  moral 
teacher  he  is  full  of  real  greatness,  and  was  often  far  in  ad- 
vance of  the  general  opinion   of  his  age.     Few  men  have 
written  more  finely,  or   with   more   evident  sincerity,  about 
truth  and  courage,  about  the   essential  equality  of  man,t 
about  the  duty  of  kindness  and   consideration  to  slaves,^ 
about  tenderness  even  in   dealing   with  sinners, §  about  the 
glory  of  unselfishness.ll  about  the  great  idea  of  humanity",i 
as  something  which  transcends  all  the  natural  and  artificial 
prejudices  of  country  and  of  caste.      Many   of  his  writings 
are  Pagan  sermons  and  iroral  essays  of  t'.'.e  best  a-.d  high- 
est type.    The  style,  as  Quintdian  says,  "  abounds  iu  delight- 
ful faults,"  but  the  strain  of  sentiment   is   never   otherwise 

than  high  and  true. 

He  is  to  be  regarded  rather  as  a  weaUhy,  eminent,  and 
successful  Roman,  who  devoted  most  of  his  leisure  to  moral 
philosophv,  than  as  a  real  philosopher  by  habit  and  profes- 
sion. And  in  this  point  of  view  his  very  inconsistencies 
l,ave  their  charm,  as  iHustraling  his  ardent,  impulsive,  im- 
aginative temi)erament.  He  was  no  apathetic,  self-con- 
tained, impassible  Stoic,  but  a  passionate,  warm-hearted 
man,  who  could  break  into  a  flood  of  unrestrained  tears  at 
the  death  of  his  friend  Annreus  Serenus,**  and  feel  a  tremb- 
ling solicitude  for  tl^e  welfare  of  his  wife  and  little  ones. 
His  was  no  absolute  renunciation,  no  impossible  perlec- 
tion ;tt  but  few  men  have  painted  more  persuasiNcly.  with 
deeper  emotion,  or  more  entire  conviction,  the  pleasures  of 

*  Consol.  ad  Polvb.  27  ;  AU  Ilelv.  17  ;  Ad  Marc.  24,  sa;q. 
t  1:-.  32  ;  I)c  Belief,  iii.  2.  :  I'e  Ira,  iii.  29,  32. 

§   Ibid.  i.  14  ;  T)c  Vit.  beat.  24.         jj  Kp.  55-  9- 
f   Ibid.  28;   Ue  Oti  Sapieiilis,  31. 

**  Ep.  63.  +t  Martha,  Lcs  Moraltsta,  p.  61. 


lyo 


SENECA, 


virtue,  the  calm  of  a  well-regulated  soul,  the  strong  and 
severe  joys  of  a  lofty  self-denial.  In  his  youth,  he  tells  us, 
he  was  preparing  himself  for  a  righteous  life,  in  his  old  age 
for  a  noble  death.*  And  let  us  not  forget,  that  when  the 
hour  of  crisis  came  which  tested  the  real  calm  and  bravery 
of  his  soul,  he  was  not  found  wanting.  "  With  no  dread," 
he  writes  to  Lucilius,  ''  I  am  preparing  myself  for  that  day 
on  which,  laying  aside  all  artifice  or  subterfuge,  I  shall  be 
able  to  judge  respecting  myself  whetlier  I  merely  speak  or 
really  feel  as  a  brave  man  should  ;  whether  all  those  words 
of  haughty  obstinacy  which  I  have  hurled  against  fortune 

were   mere  pretence   and  pantomime Disputations 

and  literary  talks,  and  words  collected  from  the  precepts  of 
philosophers,  and  eloquent  discourse,  do  not  prove  the  true 
strength  of  the  soul.  For  the  mere  speech  of  even  the  most 
cowardly  is  bold ;  what  you  have  really  achieved  will  then 
be  manifest  when  your  end  is  near.  I  accept  the  terms,  I 
do  not  shrink  from  the  decision,  "f 

^^  Accit>io  conditioneju^  72 on  reformido  jiidicnimy  They 
were  courageous  and  noble  v»'ords,  and  they  were  justified 
in  the  hour  of  trial.  When  we  remember  the  sins  of  Sene- 
ca's life,  let  us  recall  also  the  constancy  of  his  death;  while 
we  admit  the  inconsistencies  of  his  systematic  philosophy, 
let  us  be  grateful  for  the  genius,  the  enthusiasm,  the  glow  of 
intense  conviction,  with  whicli  he  clothes  his  repeated  ut- 
terance of  truths,  which,  when  based  upon  a  surer  basis, 
were  found  adequate  for  the  moral  regeneration  of  the 
world.  Nothing  is  more  easy  than  to  sneer  at  Seneca,  or  to 
write  clever  epigrams  on  one  whose  moral  attainments  fell 
infinitely  short  of  his  own  great  ideal.  But  after  all  he  was 
not  more  inconsistent  than  thousands  of    those  who  con- 

*  Ep.  6i  +  Ep.  26. 


SEXECA'S  KESEMBLAXCES    IV  SCRIPTURE.       171 

demn  him.  With  all  his  faults  he  yet  lived  a  nobler  and  a 
better  life,  he  had  loftier  aims,  he  was  braver,  more  self- 
denying — nay,  even  more  consistent — than  the  majority  of 
l^rofessing  Christians.  It  would  be  well  for  us  all  if  those 
w^ho  pour  such  scorn  upon  his  memory  attempted  to  achieve 
one  tithe  of  the  good  which  he  achieved  for  humanity  and 
for  Rome.  His  thoughts  deserve  our  imperishable  grati- 
tude :  let  him  who  is  without  sin  among  us  be  eager  to 
fling  stones  at  his  failures  and  his  sins ! 


I 


HIS  LIFE,    AXD   HOW  HE  REGARDED  IT, 


la 


EPICTETUS. 


CHAPTER  I. 


THE    LIFE    OF    EPICTETUS,  AND    HOW    HE    REGARDED    I'l. 

In  the  court  of  Nero,  Seneca  must  have  oeen  thrown  into 
more  or  less  communication  with  the  powerful  freedmen  of 
that  Emperor,  and  especially  with  his  secretary  or  librarian, 
Epaphroditus.  Epaphroditus  was  a  constant  companion  of 
the  Emperor ;  he  was  the  earliest  to  draw  Nero's  attention 
to  the  conspiracy  in  which  wSeneca  himself  perished.  There 
can  be  no  doubt  that  Seneca  knew  him,  and  had  visited  at 
his  house.  Among  the  slaves  who  thronged  tliat  house,  the 
natural  kindliness  of  the  philosopher's  heart  may  liave 
drawn  h's  attentions  to  one  little  lame  Phrygian  boy,  de- 
formed and  mean-lookinir,  whose  face — if  it  were  anv  index 
of  the  mind  within — must  even  from  boyhood  have  worn  a 
serene  and  patient  look.  The  great  courtier,  the  great 
tutor  of  the  Emperor,  the  great  Stoic  and  favourite  writer  of 
his  age,  would  indeed  have  been  astonished  if  he  had  been 
suddenly  told  that  tliat  wretched-looking  little  slave-lad  was 
destined  to  attain  purer  and  clearer  heights  of  philosophy 
than  he  himself  had  ever  done,  and  to  become  quite  as  il- 
lustrious as  himself,  and  far  more  respected  as  an  exponent 
of  Stoic  doctrines.     For   that   lame  boy  was   Epictetus — 


\ 


I 


Epictetus  for  whom  was  written  the  memorable  epitapli :  ''  I 
was  PLpictetus,  a  slave,  and  maimed  in  body,  and  a  beggar 
for  poverty,  and  dear  to  f/ie  immortals!'' 

Although  we  have  a  clear  sketch  of  his  philosophical  doc- 
trines, we  have  no  materials  whatever  for  any  but  the  most 
meagre  description  of  his  life.  The  picture  of  his  mind  — 
an  effigy  of  that  which  he  alone  regarded  as  his  true  self- 
may  be  seen  in  his  works,  and  to  this  we  can  add  little  ex- 
cept a  few  general  facts  a::d  uncertain  anecdotes. 

Epictetus  was  probably  born  in  about  the  fiftieth  year  of 
the  Christian  era;  but  we  do  not  know  the  exact  date  of 
his  birth,  nor  do  we  even  know  his  real  name.     ''  Epicte- 
tus" means  ''bought"  or  ''acquired,"  and  is  simply  a  servile 
designation.      He  was  born  at  Hierapolis,  in  Phrygia,  a  town 
between  the  rivers  Lycus  and  Meander,  and  considered  by 
some  to  be  the  capital  of  the  province.     The  town  possessed 
several  natural  wonders— sacred  springs,  stalactite  grottoes, 
and  a  deep  cavern  remarkable  for  its  mephitic  exhalations. 
It  is  more  interesting  to  us  to  know  that  it  was  within  a  few 
miles  of  Colossae  and  Eaodicea,  and  is  mentioned  by  St. 
Paul  (Col  iv.    13)  in  connexion  with  those  two  cities.     It 
must,  therefore,  have  possessed  a  Christian  Church  from  the 
earliest  times,  and,  if  Epictetus  spent  any  part  of  his  boy- 
hood there,  he  might  have  conversed  with  men  and  women 
of  humble  rank  who  had  heard  read  in  their  obscure  place 
of  meeting  the  Epistle  of  St.   Paul  to  the   Colossians,  and 
the  other,  now  lost,  which  he  addressed  to  the   Church  of 

Laodicea.* 

It  is  probable,  however,  that  Hierapolis  and  its  associa- 
tions produced  very  little  influence  on  the  mind  of  Epicte- 
tus.    His  parents  wer^  people  in  the  very  lowest  and  hum- 

♦  Col.  iv.  16. 


174 


EPICTETUS. 


blest  class,  and  their  moral  character  could  hardly  have  been 
high,  or  they  would  not  have  consented  under  any  circum- 
stance to  sell  into  slavery  their  sickly  child.  Certainly  it 
could  hardly  have  been  possible  for  Epictetus  to  enter  into 
the  world  under  less  enviable  or  less  promising  auspices. 
But  the  whole  system  of  life  is  full  of  divine  and  memorable 
compensations,  and  Epictetus  experienced  them.  God 
kindles  the  light  of  genius  where  He  will,  and  He  can  in- 
spire the  highest  and  most  regal  thoughts  even  into  the 
meanest  slave  : — 

**Such  seeds  are  scattered  night  and  day 
By  the  soft  wind  from  Heaven, 
And  in  the  poorest  human  clay 
Have  taken  root  and  thriven." 

What  were  the  accidents — or  rather,  what  w^as  ^'the  un- 
seen Providence,  by  man  nicknamed  chance  " — which  as- 
signed Epictetus  to  the  house  of  Epaphroditus  we  do  not 
know.  To  a  heart  refined  and  noble  there  could  hardly 
have  been  a  more  trying  position.  The  slaves  of  a  Roman 
fatnilia  were  crowded  together  in  immense  gangs ;  they  were 
Hable  to  the  most  violent  and  capricious  punishments  ;  they 
might  be  subjected  to  the  most  degraded  and  brutalising 
influences.  Men  sink  too  often  to  the  level  to  which  they^S^ 
are  supposed  to  belong.  Treated  with  infamy  for  long 
years,  they  are  apt  to  deem  themselves  worthy  of  infamy — 
to  lose  that  self-respect  which  is  the  invariable  concomitant 
of  religious  feeling,  and  which,  apart  from  religious  feeling, 
is  the  sole  preventive  of  personal  degradation.  Well  may 
St.  Paul  say,  *'  Art  thou  called,  being  a  servant  ?  care  not 
for  it :  but  if  thou  ??iayest  be  made  free,  use  it  rather^* 

It  is  true  that  even  in  the  heathen  world  there  began  at 

*  I  Cor.  vii.  21. 


I 


HIS  LIEE,    AXD   HOW  HE  REGARDED  IT,         175 

this  time  to  be   disseminated   among   the   best  and  wisest 
thinkers  a  sense  that  slaves  were  made  of  the  same  clay  as 
their  masters,  that  they  differed  from  freeborn  men  only  in 
the  externals  and  accidents  of  their  position,  and  that  kind- 
ness to  them  and  consideration  for  their  difficulties  was  a 
common  and  elementary  duty  of  humanity.      "  I  am  glad  to 
learn,"  says  Seneca,  in  one  of  his  interesting  letters  to  Lucil- 
ius,  "  that  you  live  on  terms  of  familiarity  with  your  slaves ; 
It  becomes  your  prudence  and  your  erudition.     Are  they 
slaves  ?     Nay,  they  are  men.     Slaves  ?     Nay,  companions. 
Slaves?     Nay,  humble  friends.     Slaves?     ^^.y,  fellow-slaves, 
if  you  but  consider  that  fortune  has  power  over  you  both." 
He  proceeds,  in  a  passage  to  which  we  have  already  alluded, 
to  reprobate  the  haughty  and  inconsiderate  fashion  of  keep- 
ing them  standing  for  hours,  mute  and  fasting,  while  their 
masters  gorged  themselves  at   the  bancjuet.      lie  deplores 
the  cruelty  which  thinks  it  necessary  to  punish  with  terrible 
severity  an  accidental  cough  or  sneeze.     He  ([uotes  the  pro-  y 
verb — a  proverb  which  reveals  a  whole  history — "  So  many 
slaves,  so  many  foes,"  and  proves  that   they  are  not  foes, 
but  that  men  iiiade  them  so ;  whereas,  when  kindly  treated, 
when   considerately   addressed,  they  would  be  silent,  even 
under  torture,  rather  than  speak  to  their  master's  disadvant- 
age.    ''  Are  they  not  sprung,"  he  asks,  '^  from  the  same  ori- 
gin, do  they  not  breathe  the  same  air,  do  they  not  live  and 
die  just   as   we    do  ?"     The    blows,  the    broken    limbs,  the 
clanking  chains,  the  stinted  food  of  the  ergastula  or  slave- 
prisons,  excited  all  Seneca's  compassion,  and  in  all  proba- 
bility presented  a  j)icture  of  misery  which  the  world  has 
rarely  seen  surpassed,  unless  it  were  in  that  nefarious  trade 
which  Engla  id  to  her  shame   once  practised,  and,  to  her 
eternal  glory,  resolutely  swept  away. 


Mb 


176 


EPICTETUS. 


But  Seneca's  inculcation  of  tenderness  towards  slaves  wa'; 
in  reality  one  of  the  most  original  of  his  moral  teachings ; 
and,  from  ail  that  we  know  of  Roman  life,  it  is  to  be  feared 
that  the  number  of  those  who  acted  in  accordance  with  it 
was  smalL  Certainly  F^imphroditus,  the  master  of  Epicte- 
tus,  was  not  one  of  them.  The  historical  facts  which  we 
know  of  this  man  are  slight.  He  was  or.e  of  the  four  who 
accompanied  the  tragic  and  despicable  flight  of  Nero  from 
Rome  in  the  year  69,  and  when,  after  many  waverings  of 
cowardice,  Nero  at  last,  under  imminent  peril  of  being  cap- 
tured aid  executed,  put  the  dagger  to  his  breast,  it  was 
Epaphroditus  vv'ho  helped  the  tyrait  to  ■  drive  it  home  into 
his  heart,  for  which  he  was  sub.  e  aie.itly  banished,  and 
finally  executed  by  the  luiiperor  i  -omitian. 

Epictetus  was  accustomed  to  tell  o.:e  or  two  anecdotes 
which,  although  give  1  without  comme.it,  show  the  narrow- 
ness and  vulgarity  of  the  man.  Amo:ig  his  slaves  was  a  cer- 
tain worthless  cobbler  riamed  lelicio ;  as  the  cobbler  was 
quite  useless,  Epaphroditus  suld  him,  a.;d  by  some  chance 
he  was  bought  by  some  one  of  Citsar's  household,  and  made 
Caesar's  cobbler.  Instantly  Epaphroditus  began  to  pay  him 
the  profoundest  respect,  ap.d  to  address  him  in  the  most  en- 
dearing terms,  so  that  if  any  one  asked  what  Epaphroditus 
was  doing,  the  answer,  as  likely  as  not,  would  be,  "  He  is 
holding  an  important  consultation  with  Felicio." 

On  one  occasion,  some  one  came  to  him  bewailing,  and 
weeping,  an.d  embracing  his  knees  in  a  paroxysm  of  grief, 
because  of  all  his  fortune  little  more  than  50,000/.  was  left ! 
"  Vv'hat  did  Epaphroditus  do  ?"  asks  Epictetus ;  "  did  he 
laugh  at  the  man  as  we  did  ?  Not  at  all ;  on  the  contrary, 
he   exclaimed,  in   a    tone    of  commiseration    and    surprise, 


HIS  LIFE,  AND   HO IV  HE  REGARDED  IT.        \^^ 

'  Poor  fellow  !  how  could  you  possibly  keep  silence  and  en- 
dure such  a  misfortune  ?' " 

How  brutally  he  could  behave,  and  how  little  respect  he 
inspired    we   mav   see  in  the  following  anecdote.     When 
Plautius   Lateranus,  the  brave  nobleman  whose  execution 
during  Piso's  conspiracy  we  have  already  related,  had  re- 
ceived on  his  neck  an  inefl^ctual  blow  of  the   tribune's 
sword,  Epaphroditus,  even  at  that  dread  moment,  could  not 
abstain  from  pressir.g  him  with  questions.     The  only  reply 
which  he  received  from  the  dying  man  was  the  contemptu- 
ous remark,  "  Should  I  wish  to  say  anything,  I  will  say  it 
(not  to  a  slave  like  you,  but)  to  your  master." 

Under  a  man  of  this  calibre  it  is  hardly  likely  that  a  lame 
Phrygian  boy  would  experience  much  kindness.     An  anec- 
dote indeed,  has  been  handed  down  to  us  by  several  writers, 
whidi  would  show  that  he  was  treated  with  atrocious  cruelty 
Epaphroditus,  it  is  said,  once  gratified  his  cruelty  by  twist 
ing  his  slave's  leg  in  some  instrument  of  torture.        I    >ou 
.0  on   you  will  break  it,"  said  Epictetus.     The  wretch  did 
go  on',  and  did  break  it.     "  I  told  you  that  you  would  break 
ft"  sad  Epictetus  c^uiedy,  not  giving  vent  to  his  anguish  by 
a  si  "le  word  or  a  single  groan.     Stories  of  heroism  no  less 
U    mVnt  have  been  authenticated  both  m   ancie.jt^  and 
„.odeni  times  ;  but  we  may  hope  for  the  --  o      -1. 
nature  that  this  story  is  false,  smce  another  authority  tdk 
.s  that  Epictetus  became  lame  in  consequence  of  a  na  ura 
disease      Be  that  however   as  it  may,  some  of  the  early 
."ers  against  Christianity-such,  for  instance  as  the  phy 
Tiln  Celsus-were  fond  of  adducing  this  anecdote  in  proof 
of  a  ntt  animity  which  not  evea  Christiaaity  could  sur- 
past    oivhich  use  of  the   anecdote  Origen  oi,.osed  the 
^wful   ilence  of  our  Saviour  upon  the  cross,  and  Gregory  of 


.  01^-^ 


178 


EPIC  TET  CIS, 


Nazianzen  pointed  out  that,  though  it  was  a  noble  thing  to 
endure  inevitable  evils,  it  was  yet   more   noble  to   undergo 
them    voluntarily   with    an    equal    fortitude.      But    even    if 
Epaphroditus    were     not   guilty  of    breaking   the    leg   of 
Epictetus,  it  is  clear  that  the  life  of  the  poor  youth  was 
surrounded  by  circumstances  of  the  most   dei)ressing  and 
miserable  character  ;  circumstances  which  would  have  forced 
an  ordinary  man  to  the  low  and  animal   level   of  existence 
which    appears   to    have    contented  the   great    majority    of 
Roman  slaves.     Some  of  the  passages   in  which  he  speaks 
about  the  consideration  due   to  this   unhappy  class  show  a 
very  tender  feeling  towards  them.     "  It  would  be  best,"  he 
says,  ''  if,  both  while  making  your  preparations  and  while 
feasting  at  your  banquets,  you  distribute  among  the  attend- 
ants some  of  the   provisions.     But   if  such  a  plan,  at  any 
particular  time,  be  difficult  to  carry  out,  remember  that  you 
who  are  not  fatigued  are  being  waited   upon  by  those  who 
are  fatigued ;  you  who  are  eating  and  drinking  by  those  who 
are  not  eating  and   drinking ;   you   who   are   conversing   by 
those  who  are  mute ;  you  who  are  at  your  ease  by  people 
under  painful  constraint.     And  thus  you  will  neither  your- 
self be  kindled  into  unseemly  passion,  nor  will  you  in  a  fit 
of  fury  do  harm  to  any  one  else."      No  doubt  Epictetus  is 
here  describing  conduct  which   he  had  often   seen,  and  of 
which   he  had  himself  experienced   the   degradation.     But 
he  had  early  acquired  a  loftiness  of  soul  and  an  insight  into 
truth  which  e  mbled  him  to  distinguish  the   substance  from 
the  shadow,  to  separate  the  realities  of  life  from   its  acci- 
dents, and  so  to  tun^i  his  very  misfortunes  into  fresh  means 
of  attaining  to  moral  nobility.      In  proof  of  this   let  us  see 
some  of  his  own  opinio  s  r.s  \  )  his  state  of  life. 

At  the  very  begininng  of  his  Uiscourscs  he   draws   a  dis- 


) 


(I 


HIS  LIFE,  AXD   HOW  HE  REGARDED  IT.         179 

tinction  between  the  things  Avhich  the  gods  have  and  the 
things  which  they  have  not  put  in  our  own  power,  and  he 
held  (being  deficient  here  in  that  light  which  Christianity 
might  have  furnished  to  him)  that  the  blessings  denied  to 
us  are  denied  not  because  the  gods  would  not,  but  because 
they  could  not  grant  them  to  us.  And  then  he  supposes 
that  Jupiter  addresses  him: — 

"-  O  Epictetus,  had  it  been  possible,  I  would  have  made 
both  your  little  body  and  your  little  property  free  and  unen- 
tangled;  but  now,  do  not  be  mistaken,  it  is  not  yours  at  all, 
but  only  clay  finely  kneaded.  Since,  however,  I  could  not 
do  this,  I  gave  you  a  portion  of  ourselves,  namely,  this 
power  of  pursuing  and  avoiding,  of  desiring  and  of  decUn- 
ing,  and  generally  the  power  of  dealing  with  appearances  : 
and  if  you  cultivate  this  power,  and  regard  it  as  that  which 
constitutes  your  real  possession,  you  will  iiever  be  hindered 
or  impeded,  nor  will  you  groan  or  find  fault  with,  or  flatter 
any  one.  Do  these  advantages  then  appear  to  you  to  be 
trifling  ?  Heaven  forbid  I  Be  content  therefore  with  these, 
and  than!:  the  gods." 

And  again  in  one  of  his  Fragments  (viii.  ix.) : — 
^'Ereedom  and  slavery  are   but   names,  respectively,  of 
virtue  and  of  vice :  and  both  of  them  depend  upon  the  will. 
But  neither  of  them  have  anything  to  do  with  those  things 
in  which  the  will  has  no  share.      For  no  one  is  a  slave  whos^" 

will  is  free." 

''  Eortune  is  an  evil  bond  of  the  body,  vice  of  the  soul ;  lor 
he  is  a  slave  whose  body  is  free  but  whose  soul  is  bound,  and, 
on  the  contrary,  he  is  free  whose  body  is  bound  but  whose 

soul  is  free." 

Who  does  not  catch  in  these  passages  the  very  tone  of 
St.  Paul  when  he  says,   ''  He  that  is  called  in  the   Lord, 


i8o 


EPICTETCS, 


being  a  servant,  is  the  Lord's  freeman  •  likewise  also  he  that 
is  called,  being  free,  is  Christ's  servant  ?  " 

Nor  is  his  independep.ce  less   clearly  express  when   he 
spea!;s  of  his  deformity.     Being  but  the  deformity  of  a  body 
which  he  despised,  he  spo'^e  of  himself  as  "an  ethereal  ex- 
istence staggering  under  the  burden  of  a  corpse."     In  his  ad- 
mirable chapter  on  Contentment,  he  very  forcibly  lays  down 
that  topic  cf  consolation  which  is  derived   from   the   sense 
that  "the  universe  is  not  made  for  our  individual  satisfac- 
tion."    ^' Must  7?iy  lig  be  lame?''  he  supposes  some  queru- 
lous objector  to  inquire.     ''Slave!"   he  replies,   ''do  you 
then  because  of  one  miserable  little  leg  find  fault  with   the 
universe  ?     Will  you  not  concede  that  accident  to  the  exist- 
ence of  general  laws  ?     Will  you  not  dismiss  the  thought  of 
it  ?     Will  you  not  cheerfully  assent  to  it  for  the  sake  of  him 
who  gave  it.     And  will  you  be  indignant  and  displeased  at 
the  ordinances  of  Zeus,  which  he  ordained   and  appointed 
with  the  Destinies,  who  were  present  and  wove  the  web  of 
your  being?     Know  you  not  what   an   atom  you  are  com- 
pared with  the  whole  ? — that  is,  as  regards  your  body,  since 
as  regards  your  reason  you  are  no  whit   inferior  to,  or  less 
than  the  gods.     For  the  greatness  of  reason  is  not  estimated 
by  size  or  height,  but  by  the  doctrines  which  it  embraces. 
Will  you  not   then   lay  up  your  treasure   in   those  matters 
v/herein  you  are  equal  to  the  gods?     And,  thanks  to  such 
principles,  a  poor  and  persecuted  slave  was  able  to  raise  his 
voice  in  sincere  and  eloquent  thanksgiving  to  that  God  to 
whom  he  owed  his  "  creation,  preservation,  and  all  the  bless- 
ings of  this  life." 

Speaking  of  the  multitude  of  our  natural  gifts,  he  says, 
"Are  these  the  onlygifts  of  Providence  towards  us?  Nay, 
v/hat  power  of  speech  suffices  adequately  to  praise,  or  to  set 


HIS  LIFE,  A\n   HOW  HE   REGARDED  IT. 


i8i 


them  forth  ?   for,  had  we   but   true    intelligence,  what   duty 
would   be   more    perpetually  incumbent  on   us  than  both 
in    public    and     in    private    to    hymn    the     Divine,    and 
bless   His   name    and    praise    His    benefits?       Ought   we 
not,  when   we    dig,    and  when   we    plough,  and   when    we 
eat,  to    sing   this   hymn    to    God?      'Great  is    God,    be- 
cause   He    hath  given    us   these    implements  wliereby  we 
may  till  the   soil  ;  great   is   God,  because  He   hath   given 
us    hands,    and     the     means     of    nourishment     by     food, 
and     insensible     growth,     and     breathing    sleep;'     these 
things  in  each  particular  we  ought   to  hymn,  and  to  chant 
the  greatest  and  the  divinest  hymn,  because  He  hath  given 
us  the  power  to  appeciate  these  blessings,  and  continuously 
to  use  them.     What  then  ?     Since  the   most  of  you  are 
blinded,  ought  there  not  to  be  some  one  to  fulfil  this  province 
for  you,  and  on  behalf  of  all  to  sing  his  hymn  to   God? 
And  vv'hat  else  can  /do,  who  am  a  lame   old   man,  except 
sing  pra'ses  to  God  ?     Now,   had  I  been   a  nightingale,  I 
should  h.ave  sung  the  songs  of  a  nightingale,  or  had  I  been 
a  swan  the  songs  of  a  swan ;  but,  being  a  reasonable  being, 
it  is  my  duty  to  hymn  God.      This  is  my  task,  and  I   ac- 
complish it;  nor,  so   far  as   may  be  granted  to  me,  will  I 
ever  abandon  this  post,  and   you   also   do   I   exhort  to  this 

same  song." 

/rhere  is  an  almost  lyric  beauty  about  these  expressions 
of  resi^^nation  and  faith  in  God,  and  it  is  the  utterance  of 
such  warm  feedings  towards  Divine  Providence  that  consti- 
tutes the  chief  originality  of  Epictetus./  It  is  interesting  tD 
think  that  the  oppressed  heathen  philosopher  found  t  :e 
same  consolation,  and  enjoyed  the  same  contentment,  as 
the  persecuted  Christian  Apostle.  "Whether  ye  eat  or 
drink,"  says  St.  Paul,  "  or  whatsoever  ye  do,  do  aU  to  the 


1 82 


EPICTETUS. 


glory  of  God."  ^^  Think  of  God,"  says  Epictetus,  '^oftener 
than  you  breathe.  Let  discourse  of  God  be  renewed  daily 
more  surely  than  your  food." 

Here,  again,  are  his  views  about  his  poverty  {Fragment 
XIX.) : — 

*' Examine  yourself  whether  you  wish  to  be  rich  or  to  be 
happy;  and  if  you  wish  to  be  rich,  know  that  it  neither  is  a 
blessing,  nor  is  it  altogether  in  your  own  power;  but  if  to 
be  happy,  l.now  that  it  both  is  a  blessing,  and  is  in  your 
own  power ;  since  the  former  is  but  a  temporary  loan  of 
fortune,  but  the  gift  of  happiness  depends  upon  the  will." 
/  ^*  Ju:;t  as  when  you  see  a  viper,  or  an  asp,  or  a  scorpion, 
in  a  casket  of  ivory  or  gold,  you  do  not  love  or  congratulate 
them  on  the  splendour  of  tlieir  material,  but  because  their 
nature  is  pernicious  you  turn  from  and  loathe  them,  so  like- 
wise when  you  see  vice  enshrined  in  wealth  and  tlie  pomp 
of  circumstance  do  not  be  astounded  at  the  glory  of  its  sur- 
roundings, but  despise  the  n"ieanness  of  its  character."/ 

'^  Wealth  is  7wt  among  the  number  of  good  things;  extrav- 
agance is  among  the  number  of  evils,  sober-mindedness  of 
good  tilings.  Now  sober-mindedness  invites  us  to  frugality 
and  the  acquisition  of  real  advantages ;  but  wealth  to  extra- 
vagance, .  1  it  drags  us  away  from  sober-mindedness.  It 
is  a  hu.Ji  mat.er,  therefore,  being  rich  to  be  sober-minded, 
or  beixng  sober-minded  to  be  rich." 

The  last  sentence  will  forcibly  remind  the  reader  of  our 
Lord's  own  words,  ''  How  liardly  shall  they  that  have  riches 
(or  as  the  para'lcl  passage  less  startling^.y  expresses  it, 
''Children,  how  hard  is  it  fortliem  that  trust  m  riches  to") 
enter  into  t'.e  l:"ngdom  of  God." 

But  th.s  is  a  favourite  subject  with  the  ancient  philoso- 
pher, and  Epictetus  continues : — - 


ms  LIFE,    AND   HOW  HE  REGARDED  IT,         183 

*'  Had  you  been  born  in  Persia,  you  would  not  have  been 
eager  to  live  in  Greece,  but  to  stay  where  you  were,  and  be 
happy;  and,  being  born  in  po\erty,why  are  youeagar  to  be 
rich,  and  not  rather  to  abide  in  poverty,  and  so  be  happy?" 

*'  As  it  is  better  to  be  in  good  liealth,  being  hard-pressed 
on  a  little  truckle-bed,  than  to  roll,  and  to  be  ill  in  some 
broad  couch;  so  too  it  is  better  in  a  small  competence  to 
enjoy  the  calm  of  moderate  desires,  than  in  the  midst  of 
superfluities  to  be  discontented." 

This,  too,  is  a  thought  which  many  have  expressed. 
'•  Gentle  sleep,"  says  Horace,  ''  despises  not  the  humble 
cottages  of  rustics,  nor  the  shaded  banks,  nor  valleys  whose 
foliage  waves  with  the  western  wind ;"  and  every  reader  will 
recall  the  magnificent  words  of  our  own  great  Shakespeare — 


"WTiy  rather,  Sleep,  licst  thou  in  smoky  cribs, 
Upon  uneasy  pallets  stretching  thee, 
And  husl.M  with  buzzing  night-flies  to  thy  slumber, 
Than  in  the  perfumed  chambers  of  the  great. 
Under  the  canojiies  of  costly  state, 
And  lull'd  with  sounds  of  sweetest  melody?" 

To  the  subject  of  freedom,  and  to  the  power  which  man 
possesses  to  make  himself  entirely  independent  of  all  sur- 
rounding circumstances,  Epictetus  incessantly  recurs.  With 
the  possibility  of  banishment  to  an  crgastulum  perpetually 
before  his  eyes,  he  defines  a  prison  as  being  any  situation 
in  which  a  man  is  placed  against  his  will ;  to  Socrates  for 
instance  the  prison  was  no  prison,  for  he  was  there  wil- 
lingly, and  no  man  ;/.vv/be  in  prison,  against  his  will  if  he 
has°  learnt,  as  one  of  his  primary  duties,  a  cheerful  acquies- 
cence in  the  inevitable.     By  the  expression  of  such  senti- 


I§. 


EPICTETrS. 


ments  Epictetus  had  anticipated  by  fifteen  hundred    years 
the  immortal  truth  so  sweetly  expressed  by  Lovelace : 


*■'■  Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make  A 
Nor  iron  bars  a  cage ;  Ml 

Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 
That  for  a  hermitage." 

Situated  as  he  was,  we  can  hardly  wonder  that  thoughts 
like  the^e  occupied  a  large  share  of  the  mind  of  Epictetus, 
Lr  that  he  had  taught  himself  to  lay  hold  of  them  with  the 
firmest  possible  grasp.  When  asked,  "  Who  among  men 
is  rich?  "  he  repHed,  "  He  who  suffices  for  himself;"  an  ex- 
pression which  contains  the  germ  of  the  truth  so  forcibly 
expressed  in  the  Book  of  Proverbs,  ''The  backslider  in 
heart  shall  be  filled  with  his  own  ways,  and  a  good  man 
shall  be  satisfied  from  himself !'  Similarly,  when  asked, 
"Who  is  free  ?  "  he  replies,  *'  The  man  who  masters  his  own 
self,"  widi  much  the  same  tone  of  expressions  as  that  of 
Solomon,  '*  He  that  is  slow  to  anger  is  better  than  the 
mighty,  and  he  that  ruleth  his  spirit  than  he  that  taketh  a 
city."  Socrates  was  one  of  the  great  models  whom  Epic- 
tetus constantly  seats  before  him,  and  this  is  one  of  the  an- 
ecdotes which  he  relates  about  him  with  admiration.  When 
Archelaus  sent  a  message  to  express  the  intention  of 
making  him  rich,  Socrates  bade  the  messenger  inform  him 
that  at  Athens  four  quarts  of  meal  might  be  bought  for 
three  halfpence,  a?id  the  fountains  flow  with  water.  ''If 
then  my  existing  possessions  are  insufficient  for  me,  at  any 
rate  I  am  sufiic'ent  for  them,  and  so  they  too  are  sufficient 
for  me.  Do  you  not  see  that  Polus  acted  the  part  of 
QEdipus  in  his  royal  state  with  no  less  beauty  of  voice  than 
that  of  (Edipus  in  Colonos,  a  wanderer  and  beggar?     Shall 


HIS  LIFE,    AND   HOW  HE  REGARDED  IT.         185 

then  a  noble  man  appear  inferior  to  Polus,  so  as  not  to  act 
well  every  character  imposed  upon  him  by   Divine   Provi 
dence ;  and  shall  he  not  imitate  Ulysses,  who  even  in  rags 
was  no  less  conspicuous  than  in  the  curled  nap  of  his  purple 

ploa    ^ 

Generally  speaking,  the  view  which  EpictetL-.s  tool:  oflife 
is  always  simple,  asd  always  consistent ;  it  is  a  ^  lew  which 
aave  him  consolation  among  life's  troubles,  and  strength  to 
display  some  of  its  noblest  virtues,  and  it  may  be  summed 
up  in  the  following  passages  of  his  famous  Manual:— 

"Remember,"  he  says,  "that   you  are   an  actor  of  just  ' 
such  a  part  as  is  assigned  you  by  the  Poet  of  the  play  ;  of  a 
short  part,  if  the  part  be  short ;  of  a  long  part,  if  it  be  long. 
Should  He  wish  you  to  act  the  part  of  a  beggar,  take  care 
to  act  it  naturally  and  nobly  ;  and  the  same  if  it  be  the  part 
of  a  lame  man,  or  a  ruler,  or  a  private  n«n ;  for  tlus  .s  m 
your  power,  to  act  well  the  part  assigned  to  you ;  but  to 
^/.^^^,.  that  part  is  the  function  of  another." 

"  I  et  not  these  considerations  afflict  you :  '  I  shall  live  de- 
spised, and  the  merest  nobody  :'  for  if  dishonour  be  an  evil, 
you  cannot  be  involved  in  evil  any  more  than  you  can  be 
involved   in  baseness  through  any  one  else's  means.     Is  it 
then  at    all  your   business   to   be    a   leading  man,  or   to 
be   entertained    at    a   banquet?      By    no     means.       How 
then  can  it  be  a  dishonor  not  to  be  so  ?     And  how  wil  )  oa 
b    a  mere  nobody,  since  it  is  your  duty   to  be  somebo  y 
only  in  those  circumstances  which  are  in  your  own  po.c  , 
in  which  you  may  be  a  person  of  the  greatest  importance  ? 
"Honour,  precedence,  confidence,"  he  argues  m  ano.hc 
passage   "  whether  they  be  good  things  or  evil  thing.,  a  c 
't  any  rate  things  for  winch  their  own  definite  price  must  be 
paid      Lettuces  are  sold  for  a  penny,  and  if  you  want  your 


1 86 


EPICTETUS, 


r 

I 


lettuce  you  must  pay  your  penny ;  and  similarly,  if  you  want 
to  be  asked  out  to  a  person's  house,  you  must  pay  the  price 
which  he  demands  for  asking  people,  whether  the  coin  he 
requires  be  praise  or  attention ;  but  if  }'Ou  do  not  give  these, 
do  not  expect  the  otlier.  Have  you  then  gained  nothing 
in  lieu  of  your  supper  ?  Indeed  you  have;  you  have  escaped 
praising  a  perrvoii  whom  }Ou  did  not  want  to  praise,  and  you 
have  escaped  the  necessity  of  tolerating  the  upstart  imper- 
thience  of  his  menials." 

Some  i)art3  of  tliis  last  thouglit  have  been  so  beautifully 
expressed  by  the  American  poet  Lowed  that  I  will  conclude 
this  cha})ter  in  his  words : 

*'  Earth  hath  her  price  for  what  earth  gives  us  ; 

The  beggar  is  taxM  for  a  corner  to  die  in  ; 
The  priest  hath  his  fee  who  comes  and  shrieves  us ; 

We  bargain  for  the  graves  we  lie  in : 
At  the  deviPs  mart  are  aU  things  sold, 
*  Each  ounce  of  dross  costs  its  ounce  of  gold, 

For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay. 

Bubbles  we  earn  with  our  whole  soul's  tasking, 
'  ZYx  ojiiy  God  thai  is  given  away^ 

'  Tis  only  heaven  ??iay  be  had  for  the  asking.''^ 


CHAPTER  II. 

LIFE   AND   VIEWS    OF    EPICTETUS  {continued). 

Whether  any  of  these  great  thoughts  would  have  suggested 
themselves  spontaneously  to  Epictetus— whether  there  was 
an  inborn  wisdom  and  nobleness  in  the  mind  of  this  slave 
which  would  have  enabled  him  to  elaborate  such  views 
from  his  own  consciousness,  we  cannot  tell ;  they  do  not, 
however,  express  his  sentiments  only,  but  belong  in  fact  to 
the  moral  teaching  of  the  great  Stoic  school,  m  the  doc- 
trines of  which  he  had  received  instruction. 

1 1  may  sound  strange  to  the  reader  that  one  situated  as 
Epictetus  was  should  yet    have  had  a  regular  tutor  to  tram 
Inm  in  Stoic  doctrines.     That  such  should  have  been  the 
case  appears  at  first  sight  inconsistent  with  the  cruelty  with 
which  he  was  treated,  but  it  is  a  fact  which  is  capable  of 
easy  explanation.     In  times  of  universal  luxury  and  display 
-in    times  when    a   sort    of  surface-refinement   is   found 
among  all  the  wealthy-some  sort  of  respect  is  always  paid 
to  intellectual  eminence,  and  intellectual  amusements  are 
cultivated  as  well  as  those  of  a  coarser  character.     Hence  a 
rich  Roman  liked  to  have  people  of  hterary  culture  among 
his  slaves ;  he  liked  to  have  people  at  hand  who  would  get 
him  any  information  which  he  might  desire  about  books, 
who  could  act  as  his  amanuenses,  who  could  even  correct 


1 88 


EPICTETUS. 


and  supply  information  for  his  original  compositions.  Siicli 
learned  slaves  formed  part  of  every  large  establishment, 
and  among  them  were  usually  to  be  found  some  who  bore, 
if  they  did  not  particularly  merit,  the  title  of  "'  philosophers." 
These  men — many  of  whom  are  described  as  having  been 
mere  impostors,  ostentatious  pedants,  or  ignorant  hypocrites 
— acted  somewhat  l-ke  domestic  chaplains  in  the  houses  of 
their  patrons.  They  gratified  an  amateur  taste  for  wisdom, 
and  helped  to  while  away  in  comparative  innocence  the 
hours  which  their  masters  might  otherwise  have  spent  in 
lassitude  or  sleep.  It  was  no  more  to  the  credit  of  Epaph- 
roditus  that  he  wished  to  have  a  philosophic  slave,  than  it  is 
to  the  credit  of  an  illiterate  miUiona-'re  in  modern  times  that 
he  likes  to  have  works  of  high  art  in  his  drawing-room,  and 
books  of  reference  in  his  well-furnished  library. 

Accordingly,  since  Epictetus  must  have  been  singularly 
useless  for  all  physical  purposes,  and  since  his  thoughtful- 
fulness  and  intelligence  could  not  fail  to  command  atten- 
tion, his  master  determined  to  make  him  useful  in  the  only 
way  possible,  and  sent  him  to  Caius  Alusonius  Rufus  to  be 
trained  in  the  doctrines  of  the  vStoic  philosophy. 

Musonius  was  the  son  of  a  Roman  knicfht.  His  learnins: 
and  eloquence,  no  less  than  his  keen  appreciation  of  Stoic 
truths,  had  so  deeply  kindled  the  suspicions  of  Nero,  that  lie 
banished  him  to  the  rocky  little  island  of  Gyaros,  on  the 
charge  of  his  having  been  concerned  in  Piso's  con^iracy. 
Ele  returned  to  Rome  after  the  suicide  of  Nero,  and  lived 
in  great  distinction  and  respect,  so  that  he  was  allowed  to 
remain  in  the  city  when  the  Emperor  Vespasian  banished 
all  the  other  philosophers  of  any  eminence. 

The  works  of  Musonius  have  not  come  down  to  us,  but  a 
few  notices  of  him,  which  are  scattered  in  the  Discourses  oi 


HIS  LIFE  AND    VIEWS, 


189 


his  greater  pupil,  show  us  what  kind  of  man  he  was.  The 
following  anecdotes  will  show  that  he  was  a  philosopher  of 
the  strictest  school. 

Speaking  of  the  value  of  logic  as  a  means  of  training  the 
reason,  Epictetus  anticipates  the  objection  that,  after  all,  a 
mere  error  in  reasoning  is  no  very  serious  fault.  He  points 
out  that  it  is  a  fault,  and  that  is  sufficient.  ''  I  too,"  he 
says,  ''once  made  this  very  remark  to  Rufus  when  he  re- 
buked me  for  not  discovering  the  suppressed  premiss  in 
some  syllogism.  'What!'  said  T,  'have  I  then  set  the 
Capitol  on  fire,  that  you  rebuke  me  thus?'  'Slave  The 
answered,  '  what  has  the  Capitol  to  do  with  it  ?  Is  there 
no  other  fault  then  short  of  setting  the  Capitol  on  fire? 
Yes  !  to  use  one's  own  mere  fancies  rashly,  at  random, 
anyhow  ;  not  to  follow  an  argument,  or  a  demonstration,  or 
a  sophism  ;  not,  in  short,  to  see  what  makes  for  oneself  or 
not,  in  questioning  and  answering— is  none  of  these  thmgs 

a  fault  ?' " 

Sometimes  he  used  to  test  the  Stoical  endurance  of  his 

pupil  by  pointing  out  the  indignities  and  tortures  which  his 

master  might  at  any  moment  inflict  upon  him  ;  and  when 

Epictetus  answered  that,  after  all,  such  treatment  was  what 

man  had  borne,  and  therefore  could  bear,  he  would  reply 

approvingly  that  every  man's  destiny  was  in  his  own  hands  ; 

that  he  need  lack  nothing  from   any  one  else;  that,  since 

he  could  derive  from   himself  magnanimity  and  nobility  of 

soul,   he  might  despise   the  notion  of  receiving    lands  or 

mon'ev  or  office.     "  But,"  he  continued,  "when  any  one  is 

cowardly  or  mean,  one  ought   obviously  in    writing  letters 

about  such  a  person  to  speak   of  him   as   a  corpse,  and  to 

say,  '  Favour  us  with  tlie  corpse   and   blood   of  So-and-so.' 

For,  in  fact,  such  a  man  is  a  mere   corpse,  and  nothing 


190 


Ej'icm'rs. 


more ;  for  if  he  were  anything  more,  he  would  have  per- 
ceived tliat  no  man  ever  suffers  an\'  real  misfortunes  by 
another's  means."  I  do  not  know  whether  Mr.  Ruskin  is 
a  student  of  Epictetus,  but  he,  among  others,  has  forcibly 
expressed  the  same  truth.  ''  My  friends,  do  you  remember 
that  old  Scythian  custom,  when  the  head  of  a  house  died  ? 
How  he  was  dressed  in  his  fm.est  dre:  s,  and  set  in  his 
chariot,  and  carried  about  to  his  fiends'  houses  ;  and  each 
of  them  placed  him  at  his  table's  head,  and  all  feasted  in 
his  presence  ?  Su])pose  it  were  offered  to  you,  in  plain 
words,  as  it  is  offered  to  you  in  dire  facts,  that  you  should 
gain  this  Scythian  honour  gradually,  while  you  yet  thouglit 
yourself  alive.  .  .  .  WouV.l  you  take  the  offer  verbally  made 
by  the  death-angel  ?  V/oukl  tlie  meanest  among  us  take  it 
think  you  ?  Yet  j^ractically  and  verily  v/e  grasp  at  it,  ever} 
one  of  us,  in  a  measure ;  many  of  us  grasp  at  it  in  the  ful- 
ness of  horror." 

The  way  in  which  Musonius  treated  would-be  pupils 
much  resembled  the  plan  adopted  by  Socrates.  "-  It  is  not 
easy,"  says  Epictetus,  ''  to  train  effeminate  youths,  any 
more  than  it  is  easy  to  take  up  whey  wuth  a  hook.  But 
those  of  fine  nature,  even  if  you  discourage  them,  desire  in- 
struction all  the  more.  For  which  reason  Rufus  often  dis- 
couraged pupils,  using  this  as  a  criterion  of  fine  and  of 
common  natures;  for  lie  used  to  say,  that  just  as  a  stone, 
even  if  you  fluig  it  into  the  air.  will  fall  down  to  the  earth 
by  its  own  gravitating  force,  so  also  a  noble  nature,  in  pro- 
portion as  it  is  repulsed,  in  that  proportion  tends  more  in 
its  own  natural  direction."     As  Emerson  says, — 

*'Yet  on  the  nimble  air  benign 
Speed  nimbler  messages, 
That  waft  the  breatli  cf  grace  divine 
To  hearts  in  sloth  and  ease. 


f 


HIS  LIFE    AXD    VIEPVS.  j^, 

So  nigh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust, 

So  near  is  God  to  man, 
When  Duty  whispers  low,    'Tnou  must,' 

The  youth  replies,   *  I  can.'  " 

One  more  trait  of  the  character  of  Musonius  will  sliow 
how  deeply  Epictetus  respected  him,  and  liow  much  good 
^  he  derived  from  him.  In  Ins  discourse  on  Ostentation, 
Epictetus  says  that  Rufus  was  in  the  habit  of  remarking  to 
\  his  pupils,  "  If  )ou  have  leisure  to  praise  me,  1  can  h?ix<t 
done  30U  no  good."  ^^  He  used  indeed  so  to  address  us 
that  each  one  of  us,  sitting  there,  thought  that  some  one 
had  been  privately  telling  tales  against  ///;//  in  i)articular, 
so  completely  did  Rufus  seize  hold  of  his  characteristics,  so 
vividly  d:d  lie  portray  our  individual  faults." 

Such  was  the  man  under  whose  teaching  Epictetus  'rrew 
to  maturity,  and  it  was  evidently  a  teaching  which  vras  wise 
and  noble,  even  if  it  were  somewhat  cliilling  and  austere.  It 
formed  an  e[)Och  in  tlie  slave's  life;  it  remoulded  liis  entire 
character;  it  w^as  to  him  the  source  of  blessings  so  inesti- 
mable in  their  value  that  it  is  doubtful  whether  they  were 
counter-balanced  by  all  the  miseries  of  povertv,  slavery,  and 
contemi)t.  He  would  i)robably  have  admitted  that  it  was 
better  for  him  to  have  been  sold  into  cruel  slavery,  than  it 
would  have  been  to  grow  up  in  freedom,  obscurity,  and  ig- 
norance in  his  native  Hiera])olis.  So  that  Epictetus  might 
have  found,  and  did  find,  in  his  own  })erson,  an  additional 
argument  in  favour  of  Divine  Providence:  an  additional 
proof  that  God  is  kind  and  merciful  to  all  men;  an  addi- 
tional intensity  of  conviction  that,  if  our  lots  on  earth  are 
not  equal,  they  are  at  least  dominated  by  a  principle  of  jus- 
tice and  of  wisdom,  and  each  man,  on  the  whole,  may  gain 
that  which  is  best  for  .him,  and   that  which   most  honestlv 


EPICTETUS. 

and  most  heartily  he  desires.     Epictetus  reminds  us  again 
and  a  -ain  that  we  may  liave  many,  if  not  all,  such  advant- 
ages Tstb.e  world  ha.  to   o:Yer,  if  we  are  willbig  io  pay  the 
Zire  by  whi:h  thcv  arc  obtained.     But   if  that  price   be  a 
•nean  or  a  wicked  one,  and  if  we  should  scorn   ourselves 
were  we  ever  tempted  to  pay  it,  then  we  must  not   even 
ca'-=t  one  lon^^in^  look  of  regret   towards   things  whicn  can 
only  be  got  bv  that  which  we  deliberately  refuse  to  gjve. 
Fvery  good  and  just  man  may  gain,  if  not  hapun.ess,  t.-.en 
something  higher  than  happiness.     Let  no  one  regard  tms 
as  a   mere  phrase,  for  it  is  capable   of  a   n.ost  d.stu.ct  and 
definite  meaning.     There  are  certain  things  wh.ch  ad  men 
desire,  and  which  all  men  ^so.U  gladly,  if  they  could  law- 
fully   and   innocentlx   obtain.       These    things    a;e  health, 
wealth,  ease,  comfort,  influence,  honour,  freedom  from  op- 
position and  nom  pain  ;  and  yet,  if  you  were  to  place  all 
the-e  b^.essings  on  the  one  side,  and  on  the  other  s.de  to 
place  povertv,  and  disease,  and  anguish,  and  trouble,  and 
contempt,-yet,  if  on  this  side  a'so  you  were  to  p  ace  truth 
and  justice,  a.d  a  sen.e  that,  however  densely  the  c.ouds 
may  gather  about  oar  life,  the  light  of  God  will  be  visible 
beyond  them,  all  the  noblest  men  wlio  ever  lived  would 
choo^x   as  without  hesitation  they  always  have  chosen,  the 
/,,//.;-  destinv.     It  is  not  that  they  like  failure,  but  they  pre- 
fer failure  to  falsity  ;  it  is  not  that  they  love  persecut.on,  but 
they  prefer  persecution  to  meanness  ;  it  is  not  that  they  relish 
opposition,  b -.t  they  welcome  opposition  rather  tlian  gu.l'y 
acqule  xence  ;  it  is  not  that  they  do  not  shrink  from  agony, 
but  ihev  would  not  escape  agony  by  crime.     The  selfiy-- 
ness  of'Dives  in  his  purple  is  to  them  less  e.iviable  t-.an  tlie 
innocence  of  Lazarus  in  rags  ;  tlrey  would  be  chained  w.th 
John  in  prison  rather  than  loll  with  Herod  at  the  feast ;  they 


HIS  LIFE  AXD    J'lElVS. 


193 


f| 


would  fight  with  beasts  with  Paul  in  tlie  arena  rather  than 
be  steeped  in  the  foul  luxury  of  Nero  on  the  throne.  It  is 
not  happiness,  but  it  is  something  higher  than  liappiness;  it 
is  stillness,  it  is  assurance,  it  is  satisfaction,  it  is  jieace  ;  the 
world  can  neither  understand  it,  nor  give  it,  nor  take  it 
away, — it  is  something  indescribable — it  is  the  gift  of  God. 

"Tlie  fallacy"  of  being  surj^ised  at  wickedness  in  pros- 
perity, and  righteou::ness  in  misery,  "  can  o:iIy  lie,"  say.-- 
Mr.  Froude,  in  words  which  would  have  delighted  Lpic.e- 
tus,  and  which  would  exp.ress  the  inmost  spirit  of  his  pl;ll- 
osophy,  "in  tlie  supposed  r/;,'-/// to  happiness.  .  .  .  Happi- 
ness is  not  what  we  are  to  look  for.  Our  ])lace  is  to  be 
true  to  tlie  best  we  k;iOw,  to  seek  that,  and  do  tiiat ;  and  if 
by  'virtue  is  its  own  reward'  be  meant  that  the  good  man 
cares  only  to  continue  good,  desiring  nothing  more,  tlien  it 
is  a  true  and  a  noble  saying.  .  .  .  Let  us  do  right,  and 
then  whether  happiness  come,  or  unhajipiness,  it  is  no  very 
mi2:h.tv  matter.  If  it  come,  life  will  be  sweet ;  if  it  do  not 
come,  life  will  be  bitter-— bitter,  not  sweet,  and  yet  to  be 
borne.  .  .  .  The  well-being  of  our  souls  depends  only  on 
what  we  are ;  and  nobleness  of  character  is  nothing  else 
h\\^  steady  hrce  of  good,  aiid  steady  scorn  of  evil.  .  .  .  Only  to 
those  who  have  the  heart  to  say,  'We  can  do  without  selfish 
enjoyment:  it  is  not  wliat  we  ask  or  desire,'  is  there  no 
secret.  Man  will  have  what  he  desires,  and  will  find  what 
is  really  best  for  him,  exactly  as  he  honestly  seeks  for  it. 
Happiness  niayfy  aiuay^  pleasure  pall  or  cease  to  be  obtain- 
able, 7uealth  decay,  friends  fail  or  prove  unkind ;  but  the 
power  to  serve  God  never  fails,  a?id  the  love  of  Hi7n  is  never 
refected. 


CHAPTER  III. 


LIFE  AND  VIEWS  OF  EPiCTE'i'US  (continued.') 


( 


Of  the  life  of  Epictetus,  as  distinct  from  his  opinions,  there 
is  unfortunately  Httle  more  to  be  told.     The  life  of 

*'  That  haltin^j  slave,  who  in  Nicopolis 
Taught  Arrian,  when  Vespasian's  brutal  son 
Cleared  Rome  of  what  most  shamed  him," 

is  not  an  eventful  life,  and  the  conditions  which  surrounded 
it  are  very  circumscribed.  Great  men,  it  has  been  ob- 
served, have  often  the  shortest  biographies  ;  their  real  life 

is  in  their  books. 

At  some  period  of  his  life,  but  how  or  when  we  do  not 
know,  Epictetus  v/as  manumitted  by  his  master,  and  was 
henceforward  regarded  by  the  world  as  free.  Probably  the 
chan'^e  made  little  or  no  difference  in  his  life.  If  it  saved 
him  from  a  certain  amount  of  brutality,  if  it  gave  him  more 
uninterrupted  leisure,  it  probably  did  not  in  the  slightest 
degree  modify  the  hardships  of  his  existence,  and  may  have 
caused  him  some  little  anxiety  as  to  the  means  of  procuring 
the  necessaries  of  life.  He,  of  all  men,  would  have  at- 
tached the  least  importance  to  the  external  conditions  under 
which  he  lived  ;  he   always  regarded  them  as  falling  under 


//A9  L/F£   AXD    VIEWS. 


195 


tiie  category  of  things  which  lay  beyond  the  spliere  of  his 
ow.i  influence,  and  therefore  as  things  with  wh'ch  lie  had 
nothing  to  do.  Even  in  his  most  oppressed  days,  he  con- 
sidered hinr:elf,  by  the  grace  of  I^eaven,  to  be  more  free- 
free  in  a  far  truer  and  higher  sense— than  thousands  of 
those  who  owed  allegiance  to  no  master's  will.  Whether 
he  had  saved  any  small  sum  of  money,  or  whether  his  needs 
were  supplied  by  the  many  who  loved  and  honoured  liim, 
V,  e  do  not  know.  He  was  a  man  who  was  content  witli  tlie 
barest  necessaries  of  life,  and  we  may  be  sure  that  he  would 
have  refused  to  be  indebted  to  any  oriC  for  more  than  these. 
Tt  is  probable  that  he  never  married.  This  may  have 
been  due  to  that  sliade  of  indifference  to  the  female  char- 
acter of  which  we  detect  traces  here  and  there  in  his  v/rit- 
ings.  In  o  :e  })a^.sage  he  comi)lains  that  women  seemed  to 
think  of  nothing  but  admiration  and  getting  married  ;  and, 
in  another,  he  obseves,  ahuost  witli  a  sneer,  tliatthe  Roman 
ladies  were  fond  of  Plato's  Re/yuhlic  because  lie  allowed 
some  very  liberal  marriaL2;e  reiiulation^.  We  can  onlv  infer 
from  these  ]  assa'j:es  that  he  had  been  verv  unfortimate  in 
the  specimen;  of  women  with  wliom  he  had  been  thrown. 
The  Roman  lades  of  his  time  \vere  certainlv  not  models  of 
character;  he  v/as  not  likely  to  fall  in  with  very  exalted 
females  among  the  slaves  of  F.paphroditus  or  tlie  ladies  of 
his  family,  and  he  had  probably  never  known  the  love  of  a 
sister  or  a  mot!  c*'s  care.  He  did  not,  however,  go  the 
length  of  condemning  marriage  altogether ;  on  tlie  con- 
trary, he  blames  the  philosoj^hers  who  did  so.  But  it  is 
equally  obvious  tl^at  he  approves  of  celibacy  as  a  ^'counsel 
of  i^erfection,"  a:;d  indeed  h^"s  views  on  the  subject  have  so 
close  and  remarkable  a  resemblance   to   those  of  St.  Paul, 


i()6 


EPICTETUS. 


that  our  readers  will  be    interested   iu   seeing  them  side  by 

side. 

In  I  Cor.  vii.  St.  Paul,  after  speaking  of  the  nobleness  of 
virginity,  proceeds,  nevertheless,  to  sanction  matrimony  as 
in  itself  a  hallowed  and  honourable  estate.  It  was  not 
given  to  all,  he  says,  to  abide  even  as  he  was,  and  therefore 
marriage  should  be  adopted  as  a  sacred  and  indissoluble 
bond.  Still,  without  being  sure  that  he  has  any  d'.vine 
-auction  for  what  he  is  about  to  say,  he  considers  celibacy 
good  '-for  the  present  distress,"  and  warns  those  that  marry 
that  thev 'shaU  have  trouble  in  the  flesh."  Tor  marriage 
involves  a  direct  multiphcation  of  the  cares  of  the  flesli: 
''  He  that  is  unmarried  careth  for  the  things  that  belong  to 
the  Lord,  how  he  may  please  tlie  Lord :  but  he  tb.at  is  mar- 
ried careth  for  the  things  that  are  of  the  world,  how  lie  may 
plea-e  his  wife.  .  .  .  And  this  I  speak  for  your  own  profit, 
not  that  I  may  cast  a  snare  upon  you,  but  for  t/icJ  ic'/uc/i  is 
comely,  and  that  ye  may  attend  7ipon  the  Lord  zuithout  dis- 
tract ion  T 

It  is  clear,  then,  that  St.   Paul  regarded  virginity  as  a 
''  counsel  of  perfection,"  and  Lpictetus  uses  respecting  it  al- 
most identically  the   same   language.      Marriage  was    per- 
fectly permissible  in  his  view,  but  it  was  much  better  for  a 
Cynic  {i.e.  for  aU  who  carried  out   most  fully  their  philoso- 
phical obligations)  to  remain  single  :   ''  Since  the  condition 
of  things  is  such  as  it  now  is,  as  though  we  were  on  the  eve 
of  battle,  ougJit  not  the  Cynio  to  be  entirely  without  distrac- 
tion "  [the  Greek  word  being  the  very  same  as  that  used  by 
St.  Paul]  ''for  the  service  of  God]  ought  he  not  to  be  able 
to  move  about  among  mankind  free  from  the  entanglement 
of  private  relationships    or    domestic    duties,  which    if  he 
neglect  he  will  no  longer  preserve  the   character  of  a  wise 


HIS  LIFE  Axn  riEivs, 


197 


and  good  man,  and  which  if  he  observe  he  will  lose  the 
function  of  a  messenger,  and  sentinel,  and  Iierald  of  the 
gods?"  Epictetus  proceeds  to  point  out  that  if  he  is  mar- 
ried he  can  no  longer  look  after  tl^e  spiritual  interests  of  all 
with  whom  he  is  thrown  in  contact,  and  no  longer  maintain 
the  rigid  independence  of  all  luxuries  which  marked  tlie 
genuine  i)h;iosopher.  He  must,  for  instance,  liave  a  bath 
for  Ii's  child,  provisions  for  his  wise's  ailments,  and  clot^:es 
for  his  little  ones,  and  money  to  buy  tlicm  satchels  and 
pens,  and  cribs  and  cups ;  and  hence  a  general  increase  of 
furniture,  ai:d  all  sorts  of  undignified  distractions,  whicli 
Epictetus  enumerates  with  an  almost  amusing  manifestation 
of  disgust.  It  is  true  (he  admits)  that  Crates,  a  celebrated 
cynic,  was  married,  but  it  was  to  a  lady  as  self-denying  as 
himself,  and  to  one  who  Iiad  given  up  wealtli  and  friends  to 
share  Iiardship  and  p>overty  with  him.  And,  if  E].ictetu« 
does  not  venture  to  say  in  so  many  words  that  Crates  in  this 
matter  made  a  mistake,  he  takes  pains  to  p.oint  out  that  the 
circumstances  were  far  too  exceptional  to  be  accepte  I  as  a 
precedent  for  the  imitation  of  others. 

''  But,"  inquires  tl.e  interlocutor,  ''how  then  is  the  world 
to  get  on  ?"  The  question  seems  quite  to  disturb  the 
bachelor  equanimity  of  Epictetus;  it  makes  liim  use  lan- 
guage of  t!-e  strongest  and  most  energetic  contempt :  and  it 
is  only  when  l:e  trendies  on  this  subject  tliat  he  e\er  seems 
to  lose  the  nobility  and  grace,  the  ''sweetness  and  light," 
which  are  the  general  characteristic  of  his  utterances.  In 
spite  of  his  complete  .^elf-mastery  he  was  evidently  a  man  of 
strong  feelings,  and  with  a  natural  tendency  to  express  them 
strongly.  '^Heaven  bless  us,"  he  exclaims  in  leply,  ''are 
they  greater  benefactors   of  mankind  who  bring   into   the 


iq8 


EPIC  TET  CIS. 


wo/ld  two  or  three  evilly-squalling  brats,*  or  those  who,  to 
the  best  of  their  power,  keep  a  beneficent  eye  on  the  lives, 
and  habits,  and  tendencies  of  all  mankind  ?  Were  the  The- 
bans  who  had  large  families  more  useful  to  their  country 
than  the  childless  Epaminondas  ;  or  was  Hon:ier  less  useful 
to  mankind  than  Priam  with  his  fifty  good-for-!iothing  sons  ? 
Why,  sir,  tlie  true  cynic  is  a  father  to  all  men  ;  all 
men  are  his  sons  and  all  women  his  daughters ;  he  has  a 

bond  of  union,  a  lien  of  affection  with  them  all/'     {Dissert, 

...         , 

m.  22.) 

The  whole  character  of  Epicletus  is  sufficient  to  prove 
that  he  would  only  do  what  he  considered  most  desirable 
and  most  exalted  ;  and  passages  like  these,  the  extreme  as- 
perity of  which  I  have  necessarily  softened  down,  are,  I 
think,  dec'sive  in  favour  of  the  tradition  which  pronounces 
him  to  have  been  unmarried. 

We  are  told  that  he  lived  in  a  cottage  of  the  simplest 
and  even  meanest  description  :  it  neither  needed  nor  pos- 
sessed a  fastening  of  any  kind,  for  withhi  it  there  was  no 
furniture  except  a  lamp  and  tiie  poor  straw  pallet  on  which 
he  s'ept.  About  his  lamp  there  was  current  in  antiquity  a 
famous  story,  to  wh'cli  he  himself  alludes.  As  a  piece  of 
unwonted  luxury  he  had  purchased  a  little  iron  lamp,  which 
burned  in  front  of  the  images  of  his  household  deities.  It 
was  the  only  possession  which  lie  had,  and  a  lh"ef  stole  it. 
^'Hewillbe  finely  disappointed  when  he  comes  again," 
quietly  observed  Epictetus.   "for  he  will  only  find  an  earth- 

*  naxoppvyxcc  nai^la.  Another  reading  is  xoKOfjvyx^'^y  which 
M.  Martha  renders,  "  Marmots  a  vilain  petit  viuseau  P'  It  is  evident 
that  Epictetus  did  not  like  children,  which  makes  his  subsequently  men- 
tioned compassion  to  the  poor  neglected  child  still  more  creditable  to 
him. 


HIS  IIFE  AXD    VIEJVS, 


199 


enware  lamp  next  time."  At  his  death  the  little  earthen- 
ware lamp  was  bought  by  some  genuine  hero-worshipper  for 
3,000  drachmas.  "The  purchaser  hoped,"  says  the  satiri- 
cal Lucian,  "  that  if  he  read  philoso[)hy  at  night  by  that 
lamp,  he  would  at  once  acquire  in  dreams  the  wisdom  of 
the  admirable  old  man  who  once  possessed  it." 

But,  i.i  spite  of  his  deep  poverty,  it  must  not  be  sup- 
posed that  there  was  anything  eccentric  or  ostentatious  in 
the  life  of  Epictetus.  On  the  contrary,  his  writings  abound 
in  directions  as  to  the  proper  bearing  of. a  philosopher  in 
life.  He  warns  his  students  that  they  may  have  ridicule  to 
endure.  Not  only  did  the  little  boys  in  the  streets,  the 
gainins  of  Rome,  appear  to  consider  a  philosopher  "fair 
game,"  and  think  it  fine  fun  to  mimic  his  gestures  and  pull 
his  beard,  but  he  had  to  undergo  the  sneers  of  much  more 
dignified  people.  "  If,"  says  Epictetus,  "  you  want  to  know 
how  the  Romans  regard  pliilosophers,  listen.  Mrelius,  who 
had  the  highest  philosophic  reputation!  among  them,  once 
when  I  was  present,  happened  to  get  into  a  great  rage  with 
his  people,  and  as  though  he  had  received  an  intolerable  in- 
jury, exclaimed,  '  I  cannot  endure  it ;  you  are  killing  me  ; 
why,  you'll  make  me  tike  him  P  pointing  to  me,"  evidently 
as  if  Epictetus  were  the  merest  insect  in  existence.  And, 
again  he  says  in  the  Manual ,  ''  If  you  wish  to  be  a  phil- 
osopher, prepare  yourself  to  be  thoroughly  laughed  at  since 
many  will  certainly  sneer  and  jeer  at  you,  and  will  say,  '  He 
has  come  back  to  us  as  a  philosopher  all  of  a  sudden,'  and 
'Where  in  the  world  did  he  get  this  superciliousness?'  Now 
do  not  you  be  supercilious,  but  cling  to  the  things  which 
appear  best  to  you  in  such  a  maimer  as  though  you  were 
conscious  of  having  been  a:)poinled  by  (xod  to  this  posi- 
tion."    Again  in  the  little  discourse    On  the  Desire  of  Ad^ 


200 


EPICTETUS, 


miration,  he  warns  the  philosopher  ''jiotfowalk  as  if  he  had 
siualloiucd  a  poker:'  or  to  care  for   the  applause  of  those 
multitudes  whom  he  hoUh  to   be  im;nersed   in  error.      For 
all  display,  aul   pretence,    and  hypocrisy,  and    Pharisaism, 
and  boasthig,  and  mere  fruitless  book-learning  he  seems  to 
have  felt  a  genuine  and  profound  contempt.      Recommen- 
dations to  simplicity  of  conduct,  courtesy   of  manner,  and 
moderation  of  language  were  among  his  practical  precepts. 
It  is  refreshing,  too,  to  know   that   with   the  strongest  and 
manliest  good  sense,  he  entirely  re;Hidiated   that  dog-like 
brutality  of  behaviour,  and  repulsive   eccentricity   of  seif- 
ne^'ect  which  characterised  iiOt  a  few  of  the  Cynic  leaders. 
iHe  expressly  argues    that    the  Cynic  should  be  a  man  of 
ready  tact,  and  attractive  pr jsence  ;  and  there  is  somethuig 
of  almxost  indignant  energy  in  liis  words  when  he  urges  upon 
a  pupil  the   i)lain   duty  of  scrupulous   cleanliness.     In  this 
respect  our  friends  the  Hermits  vv^ould  not  cpiite  have  satis- 
fied him,  although  lie    might    possibly  have  pardoned  them 
on  the  plea  that  they  abode   in   desert   solitudes,  since  he 
bids  those  who  neglect  the  due   care  of  their  bodies  to  live 
*^  either  in  the  wilderness  or  alone." 

Late  in  life  Epictetus  mcreased  his  establishment  by  tak- 
ing in  an  old  woman  as  a  servant,  l^he  cause  of  his  doing 
so  shows  an  almost  Christian  tenderness  of  character.  Ac- 
cording to  the  hideous  custom  of  infanticide  which  pre- 
vailed in  the  pagan  world,  a  man  with  whom  Epictetus  was 
acquamted  exposed  his  infant  son  to  perisli.  Epictetus  in 
pity  took  the  child  home  to  save  its  life,  and  the  services  of 
a  female  were  necessary  to  supply  its  wants.  Such  kmdness 
and  self-denial  were  all  the  more  admirable  because  pity, 
like  all  other  deep  emotions,  was  regarded  by  the  Stoics  in 
the  light  rather  of  a  vice  than  of  a  virtue.      In  this  respect, 


HIS   UEE  AXD    VIEWS, 


20I 


however,  both  Seneca  and  Epictetus,  and  to  a  still  greater 
extent  Marcus  Aurelius,  were  gloriously  false  to  the  rigidity 
of  the  school  to  which  they  professed  to  belong.  We  see 
with  delight  that  one  of  t!ie  Discourses  of  Epictetus  was  Ofi 
the  Tenderness  and  Forbearance  due  to  Sinners  ;  and  he 
abounds  in  exhortations  to  forbearance  in  judging  others. 
In  one  of  his  Fragments  he  tells  the  following  anecdote:  — 
A  person  who  had  seen  a  poor  ship-wrecked  and  almost  d)-- 
ing  pirace  took  pity  on  him,  carried  him  liome,  ga\e  liim 
clothes,  and  furnished  him  witli  all  the  necessaries  of  life. 
Somebody  reproached  him  for  doing  good  to  the  wicked — 
''  I  have  honoured,"  he  replied,  "  not  the  man,  but  human- 
ity in  his  person." 

Thit  or.e  fact  more  is  known  in  the  life  of  Epictetus, 
Domitian,  the  younger  son  of  Vespasian,  succeeded  his  far 
r.obler  brother  the  Emperor  Titus ;  and  m  the  course  of  liis 
reign  a  decree  was  passed  which  banislied  all  tlie  philoso- 
phers from  Italy.  Epictetus  was  not  exempted  from  this 
unjust  and  absurd  decree.  That  he  bore  it  with  equani- 
mity may  be  inferred  from  the  approval  with  which  lie  tells 
an  anecdote  about  Agrippinus,  who  wliile  his  cause  was 
beir.g  tried  in  tlie  Senate  went  on  with  all  his  usual  avoca- 
tions, and  on  being  informed  on  his  return  from  bathing 
that  he  had  been  condemned,  quietly  asked,  "  To  death  or 
banishment  ?"  ''To  banisliment,"  said  tlie  messenger.  "  Is 
my  property  confiscated?"  "No,"  "Very  well,  tlien  let 
us  go  as  far  as  Aricia"  (about   sixteen   miles  from    Rome), 

''  and  dine  there." 

There  was  a  certain  class  of  philosoj^hers  whose  external 
mark  and  wliose  sole  claim  to  distinction  rented  in  the 
leniith  of  their  beards  ;  and  when  the  decree  of  Domitian 
was    passed    these    gentleman    contented    themselves   with 


202 


EPICTETUS, 


shaving.  Ei)ictetus  alludes  to  this  in  his  second  Discourse, 
'^  Come,  Epictetus,  sliave  off  your  beard,"  he  imagines  some 
one  to  say  to  him.  ''  If  I  am  a  philosopher  I  will  not/'  he 
replies.  ''  Then  I  will  take  off  your  head."  "  By  all 
means,  if  that  will  do  you  any  good." 

He  went  to  Nicopolis,  a  town  of  Epirus,  which  had  been 
built  bv  Auo-ustus  in  commemoration  of  his  victory  at  Act- 
ium,  Whether  lie  ever  revisited  Rome  is  uncertain,  but  it 
is  probable  that  he  did  so,  for  we  know  that  he  enjoyed  the 
friendship  of  several  eminent  philosophers  and  statesmen, 
and  was  esteemed  and  honoured  by  the  Emperor  Hadrian 
himself.  He  is  sa-d  to  have  lived  to  a  good  old  age,  sur- 
rounded by  affectionate  and  eager  disciples,  and  to  have 
died  with  the  same  noble  simplicity  wliich  had  marked  his 
life.  The  date  of  his  death  is  as  litt^.e  known  as  that  of  his 
birth.  It  only  remains  to  give  a  sketch  of  those  thoughts 
which,  poor  though  he  was,  and  despised,  and  a  slave,  yet 
made  him   ''  dear  to  the  immortals." 


CHAPTER  IV. 


»> 


u 


n 


THE    "  MANUAL       AND    ''  FRAGMENTS       OF    FPICTETUS 


It  is  nearly  certain  tliat  Epictetus  never  committed  any  of 
his  doctrines  to  writing.  Like  his  great  exeinpla;,  Soc:-ates, 
he  contented  himself  with  oral  instruction,  and  the  bulk  of 
what  has  come  dv)\vn  to  us  in  his  i^.ame  consists  in  the  Dis- 
courses reproduced  tor  us  b;/  his  pu})!!  Airian.  It  was  the 
ambition  of  Arrian  '•  to  be  to  Epictetus  what  Xenoplion 
had  been  to  Socrates,"  that  is,  to  hand  down  to  posterity  a 
noble  and  faithful  picture  of  the  manner  in  which  liis  master 
had  lived  and  taught.  Wi'di  this  view,  he  wrote  four  books 
on  Epictetus  , — a  life,  which  is  now  unhappily  lost ,  a  h^ook 
of  conversation  or  ''  table  talk,"  which  is  also  lost ;  and  two 
books  which  have  come  down  to  us,  viz.  the  Discourses  and 
the  Manual.  It  is  from  these  two  mvaluable  books,  and 
from  a  good  many  isolated  fragments,  that  we  are  enabled 
to  judge  what  was  the  practical  morality  of  Stoicism,  as  ex- 
pounded by  tliC  holy  and  upright  slave. 

The  Manual  is  a  kind  of  ab..tract  of  Epictetus's  ethical 
principles,  which,  with  many  additional  illustrations  and 
with  more  expansion,  are  also  explained  in  the  Discourses. 
Both  books  were  so  popular  that  by  their  means  Arrian 
first  came  into  conspicuous  notice,  and  ultmiately  attained 
the  highest  eminence  and  rank.     The  Mammal  was  to  anti^ 


204 


EPICTETUS. 


quity  what  the  Iniitatio  of  Thomas  a  Kempis  was  to  later 
times,  and  what  Woodhead's  Whole  Duty  of  Man  or  Wil- 
berforce's  Practical  View  of  Christia?iity  have  been  to  large 
sections  of  modern  Englishmen.  It  was  a  clear,  succinct, 
and  practical  statement  of  common  da'ly  duties,  and  the 
principles  upon  whicli  they  rest.  Expressed  in  a  manner 
entirely  simple  and  unornate,  its  popularity  was  wholly  due 
to  tlie  moral  elevation  of  the  thoughts  which  it  expressed. 
Epictetus  did  not  aim  at  style;  his  one  aim  was  to  excite 
his  hearers  to  virtue,  and  Arrian  tells  us  that  in  this  en- 
deavour he  created  a  deep  impression  by  his  manner  and 
voice.  It  is  interesting  to  know  tliat  the  Manual  was 
widely  accepted  among  Christians  no  less  than  among 
Pagans,  and  that,  so  late  as  the  fifth  century,  paraphrases 
were  written  of  it  for  Christian  use.  No  systematic  treatise 
of  morals  so  simply  beautiful  was  ever  composed,  and  to 
this  day  the  best  Christian  may  study  it,  not  with  interest 
only,  but  with  real  advantage.  It  is  like  the  voice  of  the 
Svbil,  which,  uttering  things  simple,  and  unperfumed, 
and  unadorned,  by  God's  grace  leacheth  through  innumer- 
able years.  We  proceed  to  give  a  short  sketch  of  its  con- 
tents. 

Ejiictetus  began  by  laying  down  the  broad  comprehensive 
statement  that  there  are  some  things  which  are  in  our 
power,  and  depend  upon  ourselves ;  other  things  which  are 
beyond  our  power,  and  wholly  independent  of  us.  The 
things  which  are  in  our  power  are  our  opinions,  our  aims, 
our  desires,  our  aversions — in  a  word,  our  actions.  The 
things  beyond  our  power  are  bodily  accidents,  possessions, 
fame,  rank,  and  whatever  lies  beyond  the  sphere  of  our 
actions.  To  the  former  of  these  classes  of  things  our  whole 
attention  must  be   confined.     In   that  region   we  may  be 


HIS   ''MANUAV   AXD    ''ERAGMENTS:' 


205 


noble,  unperturbed,  and  free ;  in  the  other  we  shall  be  de- 
pendent, frustrated,  querulous,  miserable.  Both  classes 
cannot  be  successfully  attended  to;  they  are  antagonistic, 
antipathetic;  we  cannot  serve  God  and  Mammon. 

Now,  if  we  take  a  rigkit  view  of  all  these  things  which  in 
no  way  depend  on  ourselves  we  shall  regard  them  as  mere 
semblances — as  shadows  which  are  to  l)e  distinguished  from 
the  true  substance.  We  shall  not  look  upon  them  as  fit 
subjects  for  aversion  or  desire.  Sin  and  cruelty,  and  false- 
hood we  may  hate,  because  we  can  avoid  them  if  we  will; 
but  we  must  look  upon  sickness,  and  poverty,  and  death  as 
things  which  are  not  fit  subjects  for  our  avoidance,  because 
they  lie  wholly  beyond  our  control. 

This,  then, — endurance  of  the  inevitable,  avoidance  of 
the  evil — is  the  keynote  of  the  Epictetean  philosophy.  It 
has  been  summed  up  in  the  three  words, 'yir^'^ou  nal  ciitixov^ 
"-  sustine  ct  ahstinc^'  ''  Bear  and  forbear," — bear  whatever 
God  assigns  to  you,  abstain  from  that  whicli  He  forbids. 

The  earlier  part  of  the  Manual  is  devoted  to  practical 
advice  which  may  enable  men  to  endure  nobly.  For  in- 
stance, ''  If  there  be  anything,"  says  Epictetus,  ''  which  you 
highly  value  or  tenderly  love,  estimate  at  the  same  time  its 
true  nature.  Is  it  some  possession  ?  remember  that  it  may 
be  destroved.  Is  it  wife  or  child  ?  remember  that  they  may 
die."     ''  Death,"  says  an  epitaph  in  Chester  Cathedral— 

**  Death,  the  great  monitor,  comes  oft  to  prove, 
'Tis  dust  we  dote  on,  when  'tis  man  we  love.'' 

^''Desire  nothing  too  much.  If  you  are  going  to  the 
public  baths  and  are  annoyed  or  hindered  by  the  rudeness, 
the  pushing,  the  abuse,  the  thievish  propensities  of  others, 
do  not  lose  your  temper  :  remind  yourself  that  it  is  more 


206 


EPICTETUS. 


important  that  you  should  keep  your  will  in  harmony  with 
nature  than  that  you  should  bathe.  And  so  with  all  trou- 
bles ;  men  suffer  far  less  from  the  things  themselves  than 
from  the  opinions  they  have  of  them." 

'^  If  you  cannot  frame  your  circumstances  in  accordance 
with  your  washes,  frame  your  will  into  harmony  wnth  your 
circumstances.*  AMien  you  lose  the  best  gifts  of  life,  con- 
sider them  as  not  lost  but  only  resigned  to  Him  who  gave 
them.  You  have  a  remedy  in  your  own  heart  against  all 
trials — continence  as  a  bulwark  against  passion,  patience 
against  opposition.,  fortitude  against  pain.  Begin  with 
trifles  :  if  you  are  robbed,  remind  yourself  that  your  peace 
of  mind  is  of  more  value  and  importance  than  the  thing 
which  has  been  stolen  from  you.  Follow  the  guidance  of 
nature  ;  that  is  the  great  thing ;  regret  nothing,  desire 
nothing,  which  can  disturb  that  end.  Behave  as  at  a  ban- 
quet— take  with  gratitude  and  in  moderation  what  is  set  be- 
fore you,  and  seek  for  nothing  more  ;  a  higher  and  diviner 
step  will  be  to  be  ready  and  able  to  forego  even  that  which 
is  given  you,  or  which  you  might  easily  obtain.  Sympathise 
with  others,  at  least  externally,  when  they  are  in  sorrow  and 
misfortune  ;  but  remember  in  your  own  heart  that  to  the 
brave  and  wise  and  true  there  is  really  no  such  thing  as 
misfortune ;  it  is  but  an  ugly  semblance  ;  the  croak  of  the 
raven  can  portend  no  harm  to  such  a  man,  he  is  elevated 
above  its  power. 

'^  We  do  not  choose  our  own  parts  in  life,  and  have 
nothing  to  do  w^ith  those  parts ;  our  simple  duty  is  confined 
to  playing  them  well.     The  slave  may  be  as  free  as  the  con- 


***When  what  thou  wiliest  befalls  not,   thou  then  must  will  what 
befalleth." 


HIS  ''^fA\rAL''  Axn  ''Fragmexts:' 


207 


sul ;  and  freedom  is  the  chief  of  blessings  ;  it  dwarfs  all 
others  ;  beside  it  all  others  are  ip.significant,  with  it  all 
others  become  needless,  without  it  no  others  are  possible. 
No  one  can  insult  you  if  you  will  not  regard  his  words  or 
deeds  as  insults.*  Keep  your  eye  steadily  fixed  on  the 
great  reality  of  death,  and  all  other  things  will  shrink  to  their 
true  proportions.  As  in  a  voyage,  when  a  ship  has  come  to 
anchor,  if  you  have  gone  out  to  find  water,  you  may  amuse 
yourself  v>-ith  ])icking  up  a  httle  shell  or  bulb,  but  you  must 
keep  your  attention  steadily  fixed  upon  the  ship,  in  case  the 
captain  should  call,  and  then  you  must  leave  all  such  things 
lest  you  should  be  flung  on  board,  bound  like  sheep.  So  in 
life;  if,  instead  of  a  little  shell  or  bulb,  some  wifeling  or 
childling  be  graiited  you,  well  and  good  ;  but,  if  the  captain 
call,  run  to  the  ship  and  leave  sucli  possessions  behind  you, 
r.ot  lookino;  back.  But  if  vou  be  an  old  man,  take  care  not 
to  go  a  long  distance  from  the  ship  at  all,  lest  you  should  be 
called  and  come  too  late."  The  metaplior  is  a  significant 
one,  and  perhaps  the  following  lines  of  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
prefixed  anonymously  to  one  of  the  chapters  of  the  Waver- 
ley  Novels,  may  help  to  throw  light  upon  it : 

"  Death  finds  us  'midst  our  playthings;  snatches  us, 
As  a  cross  nurse  might  do  a  wayward  child, 
From  all  our  toys  and  baubles — the  rough  call 
Unlooses  all  our  favcnudte  tics  on  earth: 
And  well  if  they  are  such  as  may  l)e  answered 
In  yonder  world,  where  all  is  judged  of  truly." 


*  Compare  Cowper's  Conversation: — 

"Am  I  to  set  my  life  upon  a  throw 

Because  a  bear  is  rude  and  surly? — No.' 
A  modest,  sensible,  and  well-bred  man 
Will  not  insult  me,  and  no  other  can^ 


2o8 


EPICTETUS, 


''  Preserve  your  just  relations  to  other  men  ;  their  mis- 
conduct does  not  affect  your  duties.  Has  your  father  done 
wrong,  or  your  brother  been  unjust?  Still  he  is  your 
father,  he  /s  your  brother;  and  you  must  consider  your 
relation  to  him,  not  whether  he  be  w^orthv  of  it  or  no. 

''  Your  duty  towards  the  gods  is  to  form  just  and  true 
opinions  respecting  them.  Believe  that  they  do  all  things 
well,  and  tlien  you  need  never  murmur  or  complain." 

''As  rules  of  practice,"  says  Epictetus,  "prescribe  to 
yourself  an  ideal,  and  then  act  up  to  it.  Be  mostly  silent ; 
or,  if  you  converse,  do  not  let  it  be  about  vulgar  and  insig- 
nificant topics,  such  as  dogs,  horses,  racing,  or  prize-fighting. 
Avoid  foolish  and  immoderate  laughter,  vulgar  entertain- 
ments, impurity,  display,  Sj)ectacles,  recitations,  and  all 
egotistical  remarks.  Set  before  you  the  examples  of  the 
great  and  good.  Do  not  be  dazzled  by  mere  appearances. 
Do  what  is  right  quite  irrespective  of  what  people  will  say 
or  think.  Remember  that  your  body  is  a  very  small  matter 
and  needs  but  very  little ;  just  as  all  tliat  the  foot  needs  is  a 
shoe,  and  not  a  dazzling  ornament  of  gold,  purple,  or 
jewelled  embroidery.  To  spend  all  one's  time  on  the  body, 
or  o:\  bodily  exercises,  shows  a  weak  intellect.  Do  not  be 
fond  of  criticising  others,  and  do  not  resent  their  criticisms 
of  you.  Everything,"  he  says,  and  this  is  one  of  his  most 
characteristic  precepts,  'Mias  two  handles  !  one  by  which  it 
may  be  borne,  the  other  by  which  it  cannot.  If  your 
brother  be  unjust,  do  not  take  up  the  matter  by  that 
handle— the  handle  of  his  injustice— for  that  handle  is  the 
one  by  which  it  cannot  be  taken  up ;  but  rather  by  the 
handle  that  he  is  your  brother  and  brouo-lit  up  with  you : 
and  tlien  you  will  be  taking  it  up  as  it  can  l)e  borne. 

All  these   precepts  have  a  general  application,  but   Epic- 


ms  ^^MAXUAV'   AND    ^^ERAGMENTS:' 


209 


tetus  adds  others  on  the  right  bearing  of  a  philosopher;  that 
is,  of  one  whose  professed  ideal  is  higher  than  the  multi- 
tude. He  bids  him  above  all  things  not  to  be  censorious, 
and  not  to  be  ostentatious.  ''  Eeed  on  your  own  principles  • 
do  not  throw  them  up  to  show  how  much  you  ha\e  eaten. 
Be  self-denying,  but  do  not  boast  of  it.  Be  independent 
and  moderate,  and  regard  not  the  opinion  or  censure  of 
others,  but  keep  a  watch  upon  yourself  as  your  own  most 
dangerous  enemy.  Do  not  i)lume  yourself  on  rm  intcllcct- 
ual  knowledge  of  philosophy,  which  is  in  itself  quite  value- 
less, but  on  a  consistent  nobleness  of  action.  Never  relax 
your  efforts,  but  aim  at  perfection.  Let  everything  which 
seems  best  be  to  you  a  law  not  to  be  transiiressed ;  and 
whenever  anything  painful,  or  pleasurable,  or  glorious,  or 
inglorious,  is  set  before  you,  remember  that  now  is  the  strug- 
gle, now  is  the  liour  of  the  Olympian  contest,  and  it  may  not 
be  put  off,  and  that  by  a  single  defeat  or  yielding  your 
advance  \\\  virtue  may  be  either  secured  or  lost.  It  was  tluis 
that  Socrates  attained  perfection,  by  giving  his  heart  to  rea- 
son, and  to  reason  only.  And  tliou,  even  if  as  yet  thou  art 
not  a  Socrates,  yet  shouldst  live  as  though  it  were  thy  wish  to 
be  one."  These  are  noble  words,  but  who  that  reads  them 
Will  not  be  reminded  of  those  sacred  and  far  more  deeply- 
reaching  words,  "7?j  ye  perfect^  even  as  you}'  Faf/uv  7i<Jiich 
is  in  hctrjcn  is p:rfectr  B:hold^  now  is  the  accepted  time  ; 
behold^  no7:j  is  t/ie  day  of  saIvatio?i. 

In  this  brief  sketch  we  have  included  all  the  most  impor- 
tant thoughts  in  the  Manual.  It  ends  in  these  words.  '"On 
all  occasions  we  may  keep  in  mind  these  three  senti- 
ments:— 

" '  Lead  me,  O  Zeus,  and  thou,  Destiny,  whithersoever  ye 
ha\e  apj)ointed  me  to  go,  for  I  will  follow,  and  that  without 


2IO 


EPICTETUS. 


delay.     Should  I  be  unwilling.  I  shall  follow  as  a  coward, 
but  I  must  follow  all  the  same.'     (Cleanthes.) 

''  'Whosoever  hath  nobly  yielded  to  necessity,  I  hold  him 
wise,  and  he  knoweth  the  things  of  God.'     (Euripides.) 

'^And  this  third  one  also,  'O  Crito,  be  it  so,  if  so  be  the 
will  of  heaven.  Anytus  and  Melitus  can  indeed  slay  me, 
but  harm  me  they  cannot.'     (Socrates.) 

To  this  last  conception  of  life;  quoted  from  the  end  of 
Plato's  Apology,  Epictetus  recurs  elsew^here:  "What  re- 
sources have  we,"  he  asks,  "in  circumstances  of  great  peril? 
What  other  than  the  remembrance  of  what  is  or  what  is  not 
in  our  own  power;  w^iat  is  possible  to  us  and  what  is  not? 
I  must  die.  Be  it  so;  but  need  I  die  groaning?  I  must  be 
bound;  but  must  I  be  bound  bewailing?  I  must  be  driven 
into  exile,  well,  who  prevent  me  then  from  going  with  laugh- 
ter, and  cheerfulness,  and  calm  of  mind? 
"'Betray  secrets.' 
"'Indeed  I  will  not,  for  ///^/ rests  in  my  owm  hands.' 

"Hlien  1  wnll  put  you  in  chains.' 

"'My  good  sir,  what  are  you  talking  about?  Put  me  in 
chains  ?  No,  no !  you  may  put  my  leg  in  chains,  but  not 
even  Zeus  himself  can  master  my  wall' 

" '  I  wall  throw  you  into  prison.' 

"'My  poor  little  body;  yes,  no  doubt' 

"'I  will  cut  off  your  head.' 

"  '  Well  did  I  ever  tell  you  that  my  head  was  the  only  one 
w^hich  could  not  be  cut  off  ?' 

"Such  arc  the  things  of  w^hich  philosophers  should  think, 
and  write  them  daily,  and  exercise  themselves  therein." 

There  are  many  other  passages  in  which  Epictetus  shows 
that  the  free-will  of  man  is  liis  noblest  privilege,  and  that 
we   should   not  ''sell  it    for  a   trifle;"  or,  as   Scripture   still 


HIS    ^'MAXrAir    A XI)    -FKAGMEXTS:' 


211 


more  sternly  expresses  it,  should  not  "sell  ourselves  for 
nought."  He  relates,  for  instance,  the  complete  failure  of 
the  Emperor  Vespasian  to  indiice  ITelvidius  Prisons  not  to 
go  to  tlie  Senate.  "While  I  am  a  Senator,"  said  Helvidius, 
"I  /////j-Zgo."  "Well,  then,  at  least  be  silent  there."  "Ask 
me  no  questions,  and  1  will  be  silent.'^  "But  I  ;;n/sf  ask 
your  opinion."  And  /must  say  what  is  right."  "But  I 
will  put  you  to  death."  "Did  I  ever  tell  you  I  was  immor^ 
tal?  Do  your  part,  and  /will  do  /nine.  It  is  yours  to  kill 
me,  mine  to  die  untrembling;  yours  to  banish  me,  mine  to 
go  into  banishment  without  grief." 

We  see  from  these  remarkable  extracts  that  the  wisest  of 
the  heathen  had,  by  God's  grace,  attained  to  the  sense  that 
life  was  subject  to  a  divine  guidance.  Yet  how  dim  was 
their  vision  of  this  truth,  hovNMusecure  their  hold  upon  it,  in 
comparison  with  that  which  the  meanest  Christian  may 
attain !  They  never  definitely  grasped  the  doctrine  of 
immortality.  They  never  (juite  got  rid  of  a  haunting  dread 
that  perhaps,  after  all,  they  might  be  nothing  better  than 
insignihcant  and  unheeded  atoms,  swept  hither  and  thither 
in  tiie  mighty  eddies  of  an  unseen,  impersonal,  mysterious 
agency,  and  destined  hereafter  '^to  be  sealed  amid  the  iron 
hills,"  or 

'*To  be  imprisoned  in  the  viewless  winds, 
And  blown  with  reckless  violence  about 
The  pendent  world." 


Their  belief  in  a  personal  deity  was  confused  with  their 
belief  in  nature,  which,  in  the  language  of  a  modern  scep- 
tic, "acts  with  fearful  uniformity:  stern  as  fate,  absolute  as 
tyranny,  merciless  as  death ;  too  vast  to  praise,  too  inexora- 
ble to  pr-opitiate,  it  lias  no  ear  for  prayer,  no  heart  for  sym- 


212 


LPICTETCS, 


pathy,  no  arm  to  save."     How  different  the  soothing  and 
tender  certainty  of  the  Christian's  hope,  for  whom  Christ 
has  brought  life  and  immortahty  to  hght!     For  ^^ chance'' 
is  not  only  ^'the  daughter  of  forethought,"  as  the  old  Greek 
lyric  poet  calls  her,  but  the  daughter  also  of  love.      How 
different  the  prayer  of  David,  even  in  the  hours  of  his  worst 
agony  and  shame,  ''Let  Thy  lov'uig  Spirit  lead  me  forth  into 
the  land  of  righteousnessr     Guidance,  and  guidance  by  the 
hand  of  love,  was— as  even  in  that  dark  season  he  recog- 
nised—the very  law   of  his  life ;  and  his  soul,   purged  by 
affliction,  had    but  a  single  wish— the  wish  to   be  led,  not 
into  prosperity,  not   into  a  recovery  of  his   lost  glory,  not 
even  into  the  restoration  of  his  lost  innocence;  but  only, — 
througli  paths  however  hard— only  into  the  land  of  right- 
eousness.    i\nd  because  he  knew  that  God  would  lead  him 
thitherward,  lie  had  no  wish,  no  care  for  anything  beyond. 
We  will  end  this  chapter  by  translating  a  few  of  the  iso- 
lated fragments  of  Epictetus  which  have  been  preserved  for 
us  by  other  writers.     The  wisdom  and  beauty  of  these  frag- 
ments will  interest  the  reader,  for  Epictetus  was  one  of  the 
few  "in  the  very  dust  of  whose  thoughts  was  gold." 


'^\  life  entangled  with  accident  is  like  a  wintry  torrent, 
for  it  is  turbulent,  and  foul  with  mud,  and  impassable,  and 
tyrannous,  and  loud,  and  brief." 

"A  soul  that  dwells  with  virtue  is  like  a  perennial  spring; 
for  it  is  pure,  and  limpid,  and  refreshful,  and  inviting,  and 
serviceable,  and  rich,  and  innocent,  and  uninjurious." 


*'If  you  wish  to  be  good,  first  believe  that  you  are  bad." 


HIS   ''MAX UAL''    AXD    'TRAGMEXTSy 


21 


Compare  Matt.  ix.  12,  "They  that  be  whole  need  not  a 
physician,  but  they  that  are  sick;"  John  ix.  41,  "Now 
ye  say,  We  { ee,  therefore  3our  sin  remaineth;"  and  i  John 
i.  8,  "  If  we  say  that  we  have  no  sin,  we  deceive  ourselves, 
and  the  truth  is  not  in  us." 


"  It  is  base  for  one  who  sweetens  that  which  he  drinks 
with  the  gifts  of  bees,  to  embitter  by  vice  his  reason,  which 
is  the  gift  of  God." 


"  Nothing  is  meaner  than  the  love  of  pleasure,  the  love 
of  gain,  and  insolence:  nothing  nobler  than  high-minded- 
ness,  and  gentleness,  and  philanthropy,  and  doing  good." 


^^  The  vine  bears  three  clusters:  the  first  of  pleasure; 
the  second  of  drunkenness  ;  the  third  of  insult." 

"He  is  a  drunkard  who  drinks  more  than  three  cups; 
even  if  he  be  not  drunken,  he  has  exceeded  moderation." 

Our    own    George    Herbert    has    laid    down    the    same 

Umit : — 

*'  Be  not  a  beast  in  courtesy,  but  stay, 
Stay  at  the  third  cup,  or  forego  the  plaze, 
Wine  above  all  things  doth  God's  stamp  deface." 


"Like  the  beacon-lights  in  harbours,  which,  kindling  a 
great  blaze  by  means  of  a  few  fagots,  a^ord  suffic"ent  aid 
to  vessels  that  wander  over  the  sea,  so,  also,  a  man  of  b-ght 
character  in  a  storm-tos-ed  city,  himself  content  with  little, 
effects  great  blessings  for  his  fellow-citizens." 


214 


EPICTETUS, 


The  thought  is  not  unlike  that  of  Shakespeare : 

'*  How  far  von  little  candle  throws  its  beams, 
So  shines  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world." 

But  the  metaphor  which  Epictetus  more  commonly 
adopts  is  one  no  less  beautiful.  ''  What  good,"  asked  some 
one,  ''  did  Helvidiu.s  Priscus  do  in  resisting  Vespasian, 
being  but  a  single  person  ?"  "  What  good,"  answers 
Epictetus,  ''does  the  p'lrple  do  on  the  garment?  Why,  // 
is  sf^lcudid  in  if  self ^  and  splendid  also  in  the  example  7uhieh 
it  a  {fords r 


"  As  the  sun  does  not  wait  for  prayers  and  incanta- 
tions that  he  may  rise,  but  shines  at  once,  and  is  greeted 
by  all ;  so  neither  wait  thou  for  applause,  and  shouts, 
and  eulogies,  that  thou  mayst  do  well ; — but  be  a  spon- 
taneous benefactor,  and    thou    shalt    be  beloved   like  the 


sun. 


jy 


"  Thales,  when  asked  what  was  the  commonest  of  all 
possessio-.^s,  answered.  '  Hope  ;  for  even  those  who  have 
nothing  else  have  hope.'  " 

*'  Eead,  lead  me  on,  my  hopes,"  says  Mr.  Macdonald ; 
'•I  knov  that  ve  are  true  and  not  vain.  Vanish  from 
my  eyes  day  a'"ter  day,  but  ar'se  in  new  forms.  I  will 
follow  }our  holy  deception  ;  follow  till  ye  have  brought 
me  to  t:  c  feet  < :f  rnv  Father  in  heaven,  where  I  shall 
find  you  a  1.  with  folded  wings,  spangling  the  sapphire  dusk 
whereon  stands  His  throne  which  is  our  home. 


///s  -MAxr.iL-  .ixn  -/'/^:.u;j//:.vTsr 


215 


"  What    ought    not  to   be  done  do   not   even   think  of 
doing." 
Compare 

**  *  Guard  well  your  thoughts  for  thoughts  are  heard  in  heaven,^  " 


Epictetus,  when  asked  how  a  man  could  grieve  his 
enemy,  replied,  "  By  preparing  himself  to  act  in  the  noblest 

way." 

Compare  Rom.  xii.  20,  *'  If  thine  enemy  himger,  feed 
him ;  if  he  thirst,  give  him  drink  :  for  in  so  doing  t/iou  shalt 
heap  coals  of  fire  on  his  head'' 


*'  If  you  always  remember  that  in  all  you  do  in  soul  or 
body  God  stands  by  as  a  witness,  in  all  your  prayers  und 
your  actions  you  will  not  err;  and  you  shall  have  God 
dwelling  with  you." 

Compare  Rev.  iii.  30,  "  Behold  I  stand  at  the  door  and 
knock:  if  any  man  hear  my  voice,  and  open  the  door, 
I  will  come  in  to  him  and  ivill  sup  7inth  him,  and  he  with 


vie 


>> 


In  the  discourse  written  to  prove  that  God  keeps  watch 
upon  human  actions,  Epictetus  touches  again  on  the  same 
topic,  saying  that  God  has  placed  beside  each  one  of  us 
his  own  guardian  spirit— a  spirit  that  sleeps  not  and  cannot 
be  beguiled— and  has  handed  us  each  over  to  that  spirit  to 
protect  us.  ''  And  to  what  better  or  more  careful  guardian 
could  He  have  entrusted  us?  So  that  when  you  have 
closed  your  doors  and  made  darkness  within,  remember 
never  to  say  that  you  are  alone.     Eor  you  are  not  alone. 


Si6 


jF.  PICKET  US, 


HIS   ''MANUAL''   AND    ''FRAGMENTS:' 


217 


God,  too,  is  present  tliere,  and  your  guardian  spirit ;  and 
what  need  have  they  of  hght  to  see  what  }  ou  are  doing." 

There  is  in  this  passage  an  ahiiost  startling  coincidence 
of  thought  with  those  eloquent  words  in  the  Book  of  Eccle- 
siasticus  :  ^^  A  man  that  breaketh  wedlock,  saying  thus  in 
his  heart,  Who  seeth  me  ?  /  a^n  compassed  about  with 
darkness^  the  walls  cover  vie^  and  nobody  seeth  7?ie :  what 
need  I  to  fear  ?  the  Most  Highest  will  notr  emember  my  sins: 
such  a  7nan  only  feareth  the  eyes  of  inan^  and  knoweth  not 
that  the  eyes  of  the  Lord  are  ten  thousand  times  brighter 
than  the  sun,  beholding  all  the  ways  of  men,  and  consider- 
ing the  most  secret  parts.  He  knew  all  things  ere  ever 
they  were  created  :  so  also  after  they  were  perfected  He 
looked  upon  all.  This  man  shall  be  punished  in  tlie  streets 
of  the  city,  and  where  he  expecteth  not  he  shall  be  taken." 
(Kcclus.  xxiii.    11 — 21.) 

*'  When  we  were  children,  our  parents  entrusted  us  to  a 
tutor  who  kept  a  continual  watch  that  we  might  not  suffer 
harm ;  but,  when  we  grow  to  manhood,  God  hands  us  over 
to  an  inborn  conscience  to  guard  us.  We  must,  tlierefore, 
by  no  means  despise  this  guardianship,  since  in  that  case 
we  shall  both  be  displeasing  to  God  and  enemies  to  our 
own  conscience." 

Beautiful  and  remarkable  as  these  fragments  are  we  have 
no  space  for  more,  and  must  conclude  by  comparing  the 
last  with  the  celebrated  lines  of  George  Herbert : — 

'*  Lord  !  with  what  care  hast  Thou  begirt  us  round  I 
Parents  first  season  us.      Then  schoolmasters 
Deliver  tis  to  laws.      They  send  us  bound 
To  rules  cf  7'eason.      Holy  messengers; 
Pulpits  and  Sundays,  sorrow  dogging  sin; 
Afflictions  sorted;  anguish  of  all  sizes; 


Fine  nets  and  stratagems  to  catch  us  in  ! 

Bibles  laid  open;  milHons  of  surprises; 
Blessings  beforehand;  ties  of  gratefulness; 

The  sound  of  glory  ringing  in  our  ears; 
Without  one  shame;  ivithin  our  consciences; 

Angels  and  grace;  eternal  hopes  and  fears  ! 
Yet  all  these  fences  and  their  whole  array, 
One  cunning  bosom  sin  blows  quite  away." 


CHAPTER  V. 


THE    DISCOURSES    OP^    EPICTETUS. 


The  Discoicrses  of  Epictetus,  as  originally  published  by 
Arrian,  contained  eight  books,  of  which  only  four  have 
come  down  to  us.  They  are  in  many  respects  the  most 
valuable  expression  of  his  views.  Theic  is  something 
shghtly  repellent  in  the  stern  concision,  the  *^  imperious 
brevity,"  of  the  Majiual.  In  the  Alaniial,  says  M.  Martha,* 
'^the  reason  of  the  Stoic  proclaims  its  laws  with  an  impassi- 
bility whicli  is  little  human  ;  it  imposes  silence  on  all  the  pas- 
sions, even  the  most  respectable;  it  glories  in  waging  against 
them  an  internecine  war,  and  seems  even  to  wioh  to  repress 
the  most  legitimate  impulses  of  generous  sensibility.  In 
reading  these  rigorous  maxims  one  might  be  tempted  to  be- 
lieve that  this  legislator  of  morality  is  a  man  without  a  heart, 
and,  if  we  v/ere  not  touched  by  the  original  sincerity  of  the 
language,  one  w^ould  only  see  in  this  lapidary  style  the  con- 
ventional precepts  of  a  chimerical  system  or  the  aspirations 
of  an  impossible  perfection."  The  Discourses  are  more  il- 
lustrative, more  argumentative,  more  diffuse,  more  human. 
In  reading  them  one  feels  oneself  face  to  face  with  a  human 
being,  not  with  the  marble  statue  of  the  ideal  wise  man. 
The   style^  indeed,  is   simple,  but   its  '-athletic   nudity"  is 

*  Moralistes  sous  1' Empire,  p.  200. 


HIS   ''DISCOURCES. 


i» 


219 


well  suited  to  this  militant  morality  ;  its  picturesque  and  in 
cisive  character,  its  vigorous  metaphors,  is  vulgar  expres- 
sions, its  absence  of  all  conventional  elegance,  display  a  cer- 
tain '^  plebeian  originality "  which  gives  them  an  almost 
autobiographic  charm.  With  trenchant  logic  and  intrepid 
conviction  '''  he  wrestles  with  the  passions,  questions  them, 
makes  them  answer,  and  confounds  them  in  a  few  words 
which  are  often  sublime.  This  Socrates  without  grace  does 
not  amuse  us  by  making  his  adversary  fall  into  the  long  en- 
tanglement of  a  captious  dialogue,  but  he  rudely  seizes  and 
often  finishes  him  with  two  blows.  It  is  like  the  elocpience 
of  Phocion,  which  Demosthenes  compares  to  an  axe  which 
is  lifted  and  falls." 

Epictetus,  like  Seneca,  is  a  preacher  ;  a  preacher  with 
less  wealth  of  genius,  less  eloquence  of  expression,  less 
width  of  culture,  but  with  far  more  bravery,  clearness,  con- 
sistency, and  grasp  of  his  subject.  His  doctrine  and  his  life 
were  singularly  homogeneous,  and  his  views  admit  of  brief 
expression,  for  they  are  not  weakened  by  any  fluctuations, 
or  chequered  with  any  lights  and  shades.  The  Discourses 
difler  from  the  Manual  only  in  their  manner,  their  frequent 
anecdotes,  their  i)ointed  illustrations,  and  their  vivid  inter- 
locutory  form.  The  remark  of  Pascal,  that  Epictetus  knew 
the  grandeur  of  the  human  heart,  but  did  not  know  its 
weakness,  applies  to  the  Manual  hwt  can  hardly  be  main- 
tained when  we  judge  lum  by  some  of  the  answers  which  he 
gave  to  those  who  came  to  seek  for  his  consolation  or  ad- 
vice. 

The  Discourses  are   not   systematic   in    their  character, 
and,  even  if  they  were,  the  loss  of  the  last  four  books  would 
prevent  us  from  working  out   their   s\stem  with   any  com 
pieceness.     Our  sketch  of  the  Manual ysiW  already  have  put 


^20 


EPICTETUS, 


the  reader  in  possession  of  tlie  main  principles  and  ideas  of 
Epictetus  ;  with  the  mental  and  physical  philosophy  of  the 
schools  he  did  not  in  any  way  concern  himself;  it  was  his 
aim  to  be  a  moral  preacher,  to  ennoble  the  lives  of  men 
and  touch  their  hearts.  He  neither  plagiarised  nor  in- 
vented, but  he  gave  to  Stoicism  a  practical  reality.  All  that 
remains  for  us  to  do  is  to  choose  from  the  Discoujses  some 
of  his  most  characteristic  views,  and  the  modes  by  which 
he  brou2:ht  them  home  to  his  hearers. 

It  was  one  of  the  most  essential  peculiarities  of  Stoicism 
to  aim  at  absolute  independence,  or  j-t'^dependence.  Now, 
as  the  weaknesses  and  servilities  of  men  arise  most  fre- 
quently from  their  desire  for  superfluities,  the  true  man 
must  absolutely  get  rid  of  any  such  desire.  He  must  in- 
crease his  wealth  by  moderating  his  wislies ;  he  must  de- 
spise all  t]:e  luxuries  for  w^hich  men  long,  and  he  must 
greatly  diminish  the  number  of  supposed  necessaries.  We 
have  already  seen  some  of  the  arguments  whicli  jjoint  in 
this  direction,  and  we  may  add  another  from  the  third  book 
of  Discourses. 

A  certain  magnificent  orator,  who  was  going  to  Rome  on 
a  lawsuit,  had  called  on  E})ictetus.  The  philosopher  threw 
cold  water  on  his  visit,  because  he  did  not  believe  in  his 
sincerity.  *'  You  will  get  no  more  from  me/'  he  said, 
^4han  you  would  get  from  any  cobbler  or  greengrocer,  for 
you  have  only  come  because  it  happened  to  be  convenient, 
and  }ou  will  only  criticise  my  style,  not  really  wishing  to 
\^d.x\\  pnnciplcsr  ''Well,  but,"  answered  the  orator,  ''if  I 
attend  to  that  sort  of  thing,  1  shall  be  a  mere  pauper  like 
you,  with  no  i)late,  or  equipage,  or  land."  "  I  don't  wajit 
such  things,"  replied  Epictetus;  ''and,  besides,  you  are 
poorer  than    I    am,  after   all."     "Why,  how   so.^"     "You 


HIS  ''DISCOUKCES:'' 


121 


have  no  constancy,  no  unanimity  with  nature,  no  freedom 
from  perturbations.     Patron  or  no  patron,  vv^hat  care   I  ? 
You  do  care.     I  am  richer  than  you.     /  don't  care  what 
Caesar  thinks  of  me.     /flatter  no  one.     This  is  what  I  have 
instead  of  your  silver  and  gold  plate.     You  have  silver  ves- 
sels, but  earthenware  reasons,  principles,    appetites.     iMy 
mind  to  me  a   kingdom   is,  and  it  furnishes  me  abundant 
and  happy  occupation  in  lieu  of  your  restless  idleness.     All 
your  possessions  seem  small  to  you,  mine  seem  great  to 
me.     Your  desire  is  insatiate,  mine  is  satisfied."     The  com- 
parison with  which  he  ends  tlie  discussion   is   very  remark- 
able.    I   once  had  the   privilege   of  hearing  Sir  William 
Hooker  explain  to  the  late  Queen  Adelaide  the  contents  of 
the  Kew  }Juseum.     Among  them  was  a  cocoa-nut  with  a 
hole  in  it,  and  Sir  WiUiam  explained  to  tl.e  Queen  that  in 
certain  parts  of  India,  when  the  natives  want  to  catch  the 
monkeys  they  make  holes  in  cocoa-nuts,  and  fill  them  with 
su2:ar.     The  monkevs  thrust  in  their  hands  and   fill  them 
with  sugar ;  the  aperture  is  too  small  to  di  aw  tlie  paws  out 
again  v/hen  thus  increased  in  size  ;  the  monkeys  have  not 
the  sense  to  loose  their  hold  of  the  sugar,  and  so   they  are 
caught.     This  little  anecdote  will  enable  the  reader  to  relish 
the  illustration   of  Epictetus.     "When  little    boys   thrust 
their  hands  into  narrow-mouthed  jars  full  of  figs   and  al- 
monds, when  they  have  filled  their  hands  they  cannot  draw 
them  out  a^ain,  and  so  begin  to  howl.     Eet  go  a  few  of  the 
figs  and  almonds,  and  you'll  get  your  hand   out.     And  so 
you,  let  go  your   desires.      Don't   desire   many  things,  and 
you'll  get  what   you  do  desire."     "  Blessed  is   he   that   ex- 
pecteth  nothing,  for  he  shall  not  be  disaj^polnted  !" 

Another  of  the  constant  precepts  of  Epictetus  is  that  we 
should  aim  high;  we  are  not  to  be  common  threads  in  the 


222 


EPICTETrS, 


woof  of  life,  but  like  the  laticlave  oa  the  robe  of  a  senator, 
tiie  broad  purple  stripe  wliichgave  lustre  and  beauty  to  tlie 
whole.  But  how  are  we  to  know  that  we  are  qualified  for 
this  high  function  ?  Plow  does  tlie  bull  know,  when  the 
lion  approaches,  that  it  is  his  place  to  expose  himself  for  all 
the  herd?  If  we  have  high  powers  we  shall  soon  be  con- 
scious of  them,  and  if  we  have  them  not  we  may  gradually 
acquire  them.  Nothing  great  is  pixxluced  at  once. — the 
vine  must  blossom,  and  bear  fruit,  and  ripen,  before  we 
have  the  purple  clusters  of  the  grape, — ''first  the  blade,  then 
the  ear,  after  that  the  full  corn  in  the  ea*." 

But  whence  are  we  to  derive  this   higii  sense  of  duty  and 
possible  eminence  ?     Why,  if  Ceesar  had  adopted  you,  would 
you  not  show  your  proud  sense  of  ennoblement  in  haughty 
looks ;  how  is  it  that  you  are  not   proud  of  being  sons  of 
God  ?     You  have,  indeed,  a  body,  by  virtue  of  which  many 
men  sink  into  close  kinship  with  pernicious   wolves,  and 
sava"-e  lions,  and  crafty  foxes,  destroying  the  rational  within 
them,  and  so  becoming  greedy   cattle   or  mischievous  ver- 
min 3  but  above  and  beyond  this,   "  If,"  says  Epictetus,  '^a 
man  have  once  been  worthily  interpenetrated  with  the  be- 
lief that  we  all  have  been  in  some  special  manner  born  of 
God,  and  that  God  is  the  Father  of  gods  and  men,  I  think 
that  he   will  never  have  any  ignoble,  any  humble  thoughts 
about   himself."     Our    own   great   Milton    has  hardly  ex- 
pressed this  high  truth  more  nobly  when  he  says,  that  "  He 
that  holds  himself  in  reverence  and  due  esteem,  both  for  the 
dignity  of  God's  image  upon  him,  and  for  the  price    of  his 
redemption,  wliich  he  thinks  is  visibly  marked  upon  his  fore- 
1  ead,  accounts  himself  both  a  fit  person  to  do  the  noblest 
a-.dgodliest  deeds,  and   much  better  worth  than  to  deject 
and  defile,  with  such  a  debasement  and  pollution  as  sin  is, 


HIS   ''DISCOURCESy 


223 


himself  so  highly  ransomed,  and  ennobled  to  a  new  friend- 
ship and  filial  relation  with  God." 

"  And  how  are  we  to  know  that  we  ha^ve  made  progress  ? 
We  may  know  it  if  our  own  wills  are  bent  to  live  in  conform- 
ity with  nature;  if  we  be  noble,  free,  faithful,  humble;  if 
desiring  nothing,  and  shunning  nothing  which  lies  beyond 
our  power,  we  sit  loose  to  all  earthly  interests  ;  if  our  lives 
are  under  the  distinct  governance  of  immutable  and  noble 
laws. 

^' But  shall  we  not  meet  with  troubles  in  life?  Yes,  un- 
doubtedly; a.d  are  there  none  at  Olympia?  Are  you  not 
burnt  with  heat,  and  pressed  for  room,  a:id  wetted  with 
showers  w^hen  it  rains  ?  Is  there  not  more  than  enough 
clamour,  a.  d  shouting,  and  other  troubles?  Yet  I  suppose 
you  tolerate  and  endure  all  these  when  you  balance  them 
against  the  magnificence  of  the  spectacle  ?  And,  come 
now,  have  you  not  received  powers  wherewith  to  bear  what- 
ever occurs?  Have  you  not  received  magnanimity,  cour- 
age, fortitude  ?  And  why,  if  I  am  magnanimous,  should  I 
care  for  anything  that  can  possibly  happen  ?  what  sliall 
alarm  or  trouble  me,  or  seem  painful  ?  Shall  I  not  use  the 
faculty  for  the  ends  for  w^hich  it  was  granted  me,  or  shall  I 
grieve  and  groan  at  all  the  accidents  of  life?  On  the  con- 
trary, these  troubles  and  difficulties  are  strong  antago.iists 
pitted  against  us,  and  we  may  conquer  diem,  if  we  will,  in 
the  Olympic  game  of  life. 

'^  But  if  life  and  its  burdeiis  become  absolutely  intoler- 
able, may  we  not  ^^o  back  to  C^od,  from  whom  we  came? 
may  we  r.ot  show  thieves  and  robbers,  a:ul  tyrants  who 
claim  power  over  us  by  means  of  our  bodies  and  posses- 
sions, that  they  ha\e  no  power  I     In   a  word,  may  we  not 


224 


EPICTETUS, 


commit  suicide  ?"     We  know  how  Shakespeare  treats  this 
question  : — 

*'  For  who  woull  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time^ 
Th'  oppressor's  wrong,  t;ie  proud  man's  contumely, 
The  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  law's  delay, 
The  insolence  uf  office,  and  the  spurns 
Which  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  hare  bodkin  ?     Who  would  these  fardels  bear, 
To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life, 
But  that  the  dread  of  soinethnii^  after  death  ^ 
The  undiscovered  country  from  whose  bourne 
No  traveller  returns,  puzzles  the  will  : 
A  nd  7nakes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have 
Thanfy  to  others  that  we  know  not  of  /"'' 

But  Epictetus  had  no  materials  for  such  an  answer.  ^ 
do  noy;eiiieniber^ aji^  passage  i;i  whicli  he  refers  to  im- 
mortality or  the  Ufe  to  come,  and  it  is  therefore  probable 
eitHeTtliat  he  "did  not  believe  in  it  at  all,  or  that  he  put  it 
aside  as  one  of  those  things  which  are  out  of  our  own  power. 
Yet  his  answer  is  not  that  gloiification  of  suicide  which  we 
find  throughout  the  tragedies  of  Seneca,  and  which  was  one 
of  the  commonplaces  of  Stoicism.  "  My  friends,"  he  says, 
''  wait  God's  good  time  till  He  gives  you  the  signal,  and 
dismisses  you  from  this  service  ;  then  dismiss  yourself  to  go 
to  Him.  But  for  the  present  restrain  yourselves,  inhabiting 
the  spot  which  He  has  at  present  assigned  you.  For,  after 
all,  this  time  of  your  sojourn  here  is  short,  and  easy  for 
those  who  are  thus  disposed ;  for  what  tyrant,  or  thief,  or 
judgmentdialls,  are  objects  of  dread  to  those  who  thus  ab- 
solutely disesteem  the  body  and  its  belongings?  Stay,  then, 
and  do  not  depart  without  due  cause." 

It  will  be  seen  that  Epictetus  permits  suicide  without  ex- 


IIIS   ''DISCOURCES:' 


225 


tolHng  it,  for  in  another  place  (ii.  i)  he  says:  '^  What  is 
pain?  A  mere  ugly  mask;  turn  it,  and  s^e  that  it  is  so. 
This  little  flesh  of  ours  is  acted  on  roughly,  and  then  again 
smoothly.  If  it  is  not  for  your  interest  to  bear  it,  the  door 
is  open ;  if  it  is  for  your  interest — endure.  It  is  right  that 
under  all  circumstances  the  door  should  be  open,  since  so 
men  end  all  trouble." 

This  power  of  endurance  is  completely  the  keynote  of  the 
Stoical  view  of  life,  and  the  method  of  attaining  to  it,  by 
practising  contempt  for  all  external  accidents,  is  constantly 
inculcated.  I  have  already  told  the  anecdote  about  Agrip- 
pinus  by  which  Epictetus  admiringly  shows  that  no  extreme 
of  necessary  misfortune  could  wring  from  the  true  Scoic  a 
single  expression  of  indignation  or  of  sorrow. 

The  inevitable,  then,  in  the  view  of  the  Stoics,  comes 
from  God,  and  it  is  our  duty  not  to  murmur  against  it.  But 
this  being  the  guiding  conception  as  regards  ourselves,  how 
are  we  to  treat  others?  Here,  too,  our  duties  spring 
directly  from  our  relation  to  God,  It  is  that  relation  which 
makes  us  reverence  ourselves,  it  is  that  which  should  make 
us  honour  others.  '^  Slave!  will  you  not  bear  with  your 
own  brother,  who  has  God  for  his  father  no  less  than  you  ? 
But  they  are  wicked,  perhaps — thieves  and  murderers.  Be 
it  so,  then  they  deserve  all  the  more  pity.  You  don't  ex- 
terminate the  blind  or  deaf  because  of  their  misfortunes,  but 
you  pity  them  :  and  how  much  more  to  be  pitied  are  wicked 
men  ?  Uon't  execrate  them.  Are  you  yourself  so  very 
wise  ?" 

Nor  are  the  precepts  of  Epictetus  all  abstract  principles ; 
he  often  pauses  to  give  definite  rules  of  conduct  and  prac- 
tice. Nothing,  for  instance,  can  exceed  the  wisdom  with 
which  he  speaks  of  habits  (ii.  18),  and  the  best  means  of 


226 


EPICTETUS. 


HIS  '-'discourses:' 


227 


acquiring  good  habits  and  conquering  evil  ones.  He  points 
out  that  we  are  the  creatures  of  habit ;  that  every  single  act 
is  a  definite  grain  in  the  sand-multitude  of  influences  which 
make  up  our  daily  life  ;  that  each  time  we  are  angry  or  evil- 
inchned  we  are  adding  fuel  to  a  fire,  and  virulence  to  the 
seeds  of  a  disease.  A  fever  may  be  cured,  but  it  leaves  the 
health  weaker;  and  so  also  is  it  with  the  diseases  of  the 
soul.     They  leave  their  mark  behind  them. 

Take  the  instance  of  anger.  "-  Do  you  wish  not  to  be 
passionate  ?  do  not  then  cherish  the  habit  within  you,  and 
do  not  add  any  stimulant  thereto.  Be  calm  at  first,  and 
then  number  the  days  in  which  you  have  not  been  in  a  rage. 
I  used  to  be  angry  every  day,  now  it  is  only  every  other 
day,  then  every  third,  then  every  fourth  day.  But  should 
you  have  passed  even  thirty  days  without  a  relapse,  then 
offer  a  sacrifice  to  God.  For  the  habit  is  first  loosened, 
then  utterly  eradicated.  '  I  did  not  yield  to  vexation  to- 
day, nor  the  next  day,  nor  so  on  for  two  or  three  months, 
but  I  restrained  myself  under  various  provocations.'  Be 
sure,  if  you  can  say  that,  that  it  will  soon  be  all  right  ^vith 

you." 

But  how  is  one  to  do  all  this  ?  that  is  the  great  question, 
and  Epictetus  is  quite  ready  to  give  you  the  best  answer  he 
can.     We  have,  for  instance,  already  quoted  one  passage  in 
which  (unlike  the   majority  of  Pagan  moralists)  he  shows 
that  he  has  thoroughly  mastered  the  ethical  importance  of 
controUing  even  the  thougJU  of  wickedness.     Another  anec- 
dote about  Agrippinus  will  further  illustrate  the  same  doc- 
trine.    It  was  the  wicked  practice  of  Nero  to  make  noble 
Romans  appear  on  the  stage  or  in  gladiatorial  shows,  in 
/'    order  that  he  might  thus  seem  to  have  their  sanction  for  his 
^      own  degrading  displays.     On  one  occasion  Florus,  who  was 


^ 


II 


doubting  wliether  or  not  he  should  obey  tiie  mandate,  con- 
sulted Agrippinus  on  the  subject.  '^  Go  by  all  means'  re- 
plied Agrii)pinus.  "  But  why  don't  you  go,  then  ?'  asked 
Floras.  "  Because^  said  Agrippinus,  "  I  Jo  ?iot  dcliba'afc 
about  //,"  He  implied  by  this  answer  that  to  hesitate  is  to 
yield,  to  deliberate  is  to  be  lost;  we  must  act  always  on 
principles,  we  must  never  pause  to  calculate  consequences, 
"  But  if  I  don't  go,"  objected  Florus,  ^^  shaU  have  my  head 
cut  off."  "  Well,  thea,  go,  but  /won't."  -  Why  won't  you 
go.?"  "Because  I  do  not  care  to  be  of  a  piece  with  the 
common  thread  of  life;  I  like  to  be  the  purple  sewn  upon 
it." 

And  if  we  want  a  due  molive  for  sucli  lofty  choice  Epic- 
tetus will  supply  it.  "  Wish,"  he  says,  "  to  win  the  suffrages 
of  your  own  inward  approval,  wish  to  appear  beautiful  to 
God.  Desire  to  be  pure  with  your  own  pure  self,  and  with 
God.  And  when  any  evil  fancy  assails  you,  Plato  says,  '  Go 
to  the  rites  of  expiation,  go  as  a  suppliant  to  the  temples  of 
the  gods,  the  averters  of  evil'  But  it  will  be  enough  should 
you  even  rise  and  depart  to  the  society  of  the  noble  and  the 
good,  to  live  according  to  their  examples,  whether  you  have 
any  such  friend  among  the  living  or  among  the  dead.  Go 
to  Socrates,  and  gaze  on  his  utter  mastery  over  teinjjtation 
and  passion ;  consider  how  glorious  was  the  conscious  vic- 
tory over  himself  !  What  an  Olympic  triumph  1  How  near 
does  it  place  him  to  Hercules  himself.'  So  that,  by  heaven, 
one  might  justly  salute  him,  '  Hail,  marvellous  concjueror, 
who  hast  conquered,  not  these  miserable  boxers  and  ath- 
letes, nor  these  gladiators  who  resemble  them.'  And  should 
you  thus  be  accustomed  to  train  yourself,  you  will  see  what 
shoulders  you  will  get,  what  nerves,  what  sinews,  instead  of 
mere  babblements,   and  nothing    more.      This   is  the   true 


228 


EPICTETUS. 


athlete,  the  man  who  trains  liimself  to  deal  with  such  sem- 
blances as  these.     Great  is  the  struggle,  divine  the  deed  ;  it 
is    for   kingdom,  for   freedom,   for   tranquillity,  for    peace. 
Think  on  God ;  call  upon  Him  as  thine  aid  and  champion, 
as  sailors  call  on  the  Great  Twin*  Brethren  in  the  storm. 
And    indeed  what  storm    is  greater  than  that  which  rises 
from    powerful   semblances   that    dash   reason    out    of  its 
course  ?     What   indeed  but  semblance  is  a  storm  itself  ? 
Since  come  now,  remove  the  fear  of  deatii,  and  bring  as 
many  thunders  and  lightnings  as  thou  wilt,  and  thou  shalt 
know  how  great  is  the  tranquillity  and  calm  in  that  reason 
which  is  the  ruling  faculty  of  the  soul.     But  should  you 
once  be  worsted,  and  say  that  you  will  conquer  hereafter, 
and  then  the  same  again  and  again,  know  that  thus  your 
condition  will  be  vile  and  weak,  so  that  at  the  last  you  will 
not  even  know  that  you  are  doing  wrong,  but  you  will  even 
begin  to  provide  excuses  for  your  sin ;  and  then  you  will 
confirm  the  truth  of  that  saying  of  Hesiod,— 


«  «  The  man  that  procrastinates  struggles  ever  with  ruin. 


1  11 


Even  so!  So  early  did  a  heathen  moraUst  learn  the 
solemn  fact  that  "  only  this  once"  ends  in  ''there  is  no 
harm  in  it."     Well  does  Mr.  Coventry  Patmore  sing  :— 

**  How  easy  to  keep  free  from  sin  ; 
How  hard  that  freedom  to  recall  ; 
For  awful  truth  it  is  that  men 

Forget  the  heaven  from  which  they  fall." 

In  another  place  Epictetus  warns  us,  however,  not  to  be 
too  easily  discouraged  in  our  attempts  after  good  ;— and, 
above  all,  never  to  despair.     "  In  the  schools  of  the  wrest- 


///S   ''DISCOUKSES:' 


229 


ling  master,  when  a  boy  falls  he  is  bidden  to  get  up  again, 
and  to  go  on  wrestling  day  by  day  till  he  has  acciitired 
strength  ;  and  we  must  do  the  san^e,  and  not  be  like  those 
poor  wretches  who  after  one  failure  suffer  themselves  to  be 
swept  along  as  by  a  torrent.  You  need  but  7cn//;'  he  says, 
"  and  It  is  done  ;  but  if  you  relax  your  efforts,  you  will  be 
ruined  ;  for  rum  and  recovery  are  both  from  within.— And 
what  will  you  gain  by  all  this  ?  You  will  gain  modesty  for 
mpudence,  purity  for  vileness,  moderation  for  drunkenness. 
Jf  you  think  there  are  any  better  ends  than  these,  then  by 
all  means  go  on  in  sin,  for  you  are  beyond  the  power  of  any 
god  to  save." 

But  Epictetus  is  particularly  in  earnest  about  warning  us 
that  io  profess   these  principles  and  talk  about  them  is   one 
thing— to  act  up  to  them  quite  another.     He  draws  a  humor- 
ous picture  of  an  inconsistent  and  unreal  philosopher,  who 
— after  eloquently  proving   that   nothing  is   good  but  what 
pertains  to  virtue,  and  nothing  evil  but  what  pertains  to  vice, 
and  that  all  other  things  are  indifferent — goes  to  sea.     A 
storm    comes    on,   and  the  masts    creak,   and  the  philoso- 
pher screams  ;  and   an    impertinent  person  stands   by  and 
asks   in   surprise,    ''Is    it    then  vice  to  suffer   shipwreck.? 
because,  if  not,  it  can  be  no  evil ;"  a  question  which  makes 
our  philosopher  so  angry  that  he  is  inclined  to  fling  a  log  at 
his  interlocutor's  head.      But  Epictetus  sternly  tells  him  that 
the  philosopher  never  was  one  at  all,  except  in  name ;  that 
as  he  sat  in  the  schools  puffed  up  by  homage  and  adulation, 
his  innate  cowardice  and  conceit  were  but  hidden  under  bor- 
rowed plumes ;  and  that  in  him  the  name  of  Stoic  was  usurped. 
"  Why,"  he  asks  in   another  passage,  "  why  do  you  call 
yourself  a   Stoic  ?     Why   do  you   deceive   the    multitude  ? 
Why  do  you  act  the  Jew  when  you  are   a  Greek  ?     Don't 


230 


EPICTETUS. 


you  see  on  what  terms  each  person  is  called  a  Jew?  or  a 
Syrian  ?  or  an  Egyptian  ?  And  when  we  see  some  mere 
trimmer  we  are  in  the  habit  of  saying,  •This  is  no  Jew ;  he 
is  only  acting  the  part  of  one ;'  but  when  a  man  takes  up 
the  entire  condition  of  a  proselyte,  thoroughly  imbued  with 
Jewish  doctrines,  then  he  both  is  in  reality  and  is  called  3. 
Jqw.  So  we  philosophers  too,  dipped  in  a  false  dye,  are 
Jcivs  in  7iame,  but  in  reality  are  something  else,  .  .  .  We 
call  ourselves  philosophers  when  we  cannot  even  play  the 
part  of  men,  as  though  a  man  should  try  to  heave  the  stoi^e 
of  Ajax  who  cannot  lift  ten  pounds.''  Thq  passage  is  inter^ 
esting  not  only  on  its  own  account,  but  because  of  its  curi- 
ous similarity  both  with  the  language  and  with  the  sentiment 

of  St.   Paul ''  He  is  not   a  Jew   who   is    one  outwardly, 

neither  is  that  circumcision  which  is  outward  in  the  flesh, 
but  he  is  a  Jew  who  is  one  inwardly;  and  circumcision  is 
that  of  the  heart,  in  the  spirit  and  not  in  the  latter ;  whose 
praise  is  not  of  men,  but  of  God." 

The  best  way  to  become  a  philosopher  in  deed  is  not  by 
a  mere  study  of  books  and  knowledge  of  doctrines,  but  by 
a  steady  diligence  of  actions  and  adherence  to  original  prin- 
ciples, to  which  must   be  added   consistency  and  self  con- 
trol.    "  These  principles,"  says  Epictetus,   ''  produce  friend- 
ship in  a  house,  unanimity  in  a  city,  peace  in  nations ;  they 
make  a  man  grateful  to  God,  bold  under  all  circumstances, 
as  though  dealing  with  things  aHen  and  valueless.     Now  we 
are  capable  of  writing  these  things,  and  reading  them,  and 
praising  them  when  they  are  read,  but  we  are  far  enough  off 
following  them.     Hence  comes  it   that  the  reproach  of  the 
Lacedaemonians,    that   they   are  'Hons    at   home,  foxes  at 
Ephesus,'  will  also  apply  to  us ;  in  the  school  we  are  lions, 
out  of  it  foxes." 


HIS   ''DISCOURSES:' 


231 


These  passages  include,  I  think,  all  the  most  original,  im- 
portant, and  characteristic  conceptions  which  are  to  be 
found  in  tlie  Discourses,  They  are  most  prominently  illus- 
trated in  the  long  and  important  chapter  on  the  Cynic  phil- 
osophy. A  genuine  C)'nic— one  who  was  so,  not  in  bru- 
tality of  manners  or  ostentation  of  rabid  eccentricity,  but  a 
Cynic  in  life  and  in  his  inmost  principles— was  evidently  in 
the  eyes  of  Epictetus  one  of  the  loftiest  of  human  beings. 
He  drew  a  sketch  of  his  ideal  conception  to  one  of  his 
scholars  who  inquired  of  him  upon  the  subject. 

He  begins  by  saying  that  a  true  Cynic  is  so  lofty  a  being 
that  he  who  undertakes  the  profession  without  due  qualifica- 
tions kindles  against  him  the  anger  of  heaven.  He  is  like  a 
scurrilous  Thersites,  claiming  the  imperial  office  of  an  Aga- 
memnon. "  If  you  think,"  he  tells  the  younn;  student  ''  that 
you  can  be  a  Cynic  merely  by  wearing  an  old  cloak,  and 
sleeping  on  a  hard  bed,  and  using  a  wallet  and  staff,  and 
begging,  and  rebuking  every  one  whom  you  see  effeminately 
dressed  or  wearing  purple,  you  don't  know  what  you  are 
about— get  you  gone  ;  but  if  you  know  what  a  Cynic  really 
is,  and  think  yourself  capable  of  being  one,  then  consider 
how  great  a  thing  you  are  undertaking. 

"  First  as  to  yourself.  You  must  be  absolutely  resigned 
to  the  will  of  God.  You  must  conc][uer  every  passion,  abro- 
gate every  desire.  Your  life  must  be  transparently  open  to 
the  view  of  God  and  man.  Other  men  conceal  their  actions 
with  houses,  and  doors,  and  darkness,  and  guards ;  your 
house,  your  door,  your  darkness,  must  be  a  sense  of  holy 
shame.      You  must  conceal  nothing  ;  you  must  have  noth- 

• 

ing  to  conceal.     You  must  be  known  as  the  spy  and  mes- 
senger of  God  among  mankind. 

*^You  must  teach  men  that  happiness  is  not  there,  where 


23^ 


EPICTETUS, 


Ills  ''DISCO CKSES:' 


^zi 


in  their  blindness   and   misery  they  seek  it.     It  is  not  in 
strength,  for  Myro  and  Ofellius  were   not  happy :    not  in 
wealth,  for  Croesus  was  not    happy :  not  in  power,  for  the 
Consuls  are  not  happy  :  not  in  all  these  together,  for  Nero, 
and  Sardanapalus,  and  Agamemnon  sighed,  and  wept,  and 
tore  their  hair,  and  were  the  slaves  of  circumstances  and  the 
dupes  of  semblances.     It  lies  in  yourselves :  in  true  free- 
dom, in  the  absence  or  conquest  of  every  ignoble  fear;  m 
perfect  self-government ;  in  a  power   of  contentment  and 
peace,  and  the  '  even  flow  of  life '  amid  poverty,  exile,  dis- 
ease, and  the  very  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death.     Can  you 
face' this  Olympic  contest?     Are  your  thews    and  sinews 
strong  enough  ?     Can  you  face  the  fact  that  those  who  are 
defeated  are  also  disgraced  and  whipped  ? 

"  Only  by  God's  aid  can  you  attain  to  this.  Only  by  His 
aid  can  you  be  beaten  like  an  ass,  and  yet  love  those  who 
beat  you,  preserving  an  unshaken  unanimity  in  the  midst  of 
circumstances  which  to  other  men  would  cause  trouble,  and 
grief,  and  disappointment,  and  despair. 

"  The  Cynic  must  learn  to  do  without  friends,  for  where 
can  he  find  a  friend  worthy  of  him,  or  a  king  worthy  of  shar- 
ing his  moral  sceptre?  The  friend  of  the  truly  noble  must 
be  as  truly  noble  as  himself,  and  such  a  friend  the  genuine 
Cynic  cannot  hope  to  find.  Nor  must  he  marry  ;  marriage 
is  right  and  honourable  in  other  men,  but  its  entanglements, 
its  expenses,  its  distractions,  would  render  impossible  a  hfe 
devoted  to  the  service  of  heaven. 

"  Nor  will  he  mingle  in  the  attairs  of  any  commonwealth  : 
his  commonwealth  is  not  Athens  or  Corinth,  but  mankind. 

"  In  person  he  should  be  strong,  and  robust,  and  hale, 
and  in  spite  of  his  indigence  always  clean  and  attractive. 
Tact  and  intelligence,  and   a  power  of  swift  repartee,  are 


I 


I 


necessary  to  him.  His  conscience  must  be  clear  as  the 
sun.  He  must  sleep  purely,  and  wake  still  more  purely. 
To  abuse  and  insult  he  must  be  as  insensible  as  a  stone 
and  he  must  place  all  fears  and  desires  beneath  his  feet' 
To  be  a  Cynic  is  to  be  this :  before  you  attempt  it  delib- 
erate well,  and  see  whether  by  the  help  of  God  you  are  cap- 
able of  achievintr  it. 

I  have  given  a  sketch  of  the  doctrines  of  this  lofty  chap- 
ter, but  fully  to  enjoy  its  morality  and  eloquence  the  reader 
should  study  it  entire,  and  observe  its  generous  impatience, 
its  noble  ardour,  its  vivid  interrogations,  ''  in  which,"  says 
M.  Martha,  *^one  feels  as  it  were  a  frenzy  of  virtue  and  of 
piety,  and  in  which  the  plenitude  of  a  great  heart  tumultu- 
ously  precipitates  a  torrent  of  holy  thoughts." 

Epictetus  was  not  a  Christian.  He  has  only  once  al- 
luded to  the  Christians  in  his  works,  and  there  it  is  under 
the  opprobrious  title  of  -  Galileans,"  who  practised  a  kind 
of  insensibility  in  painful  circumstances  and  an  indifi*erence 
to  worldly  interests  which  Epictetus  unjustly  sets  down  to 
''mere  habit."  Unhappily  it  was  not  granted  to  these 
heathen  philosophers  in  any  true  sense  to  know  what 
Christianity  was.  They  ignorantly  thought  that  it  was  an 
attempt  to  imitate  the  results  of  philosophy,  without  having 
passed  through  the  necessary  discipline.  They  viewed  it 
with  suspicion,  they  treated  it  with  injustice.  And  yet  in 
Christianity,  and  in  Christianity  alone,  they  would  have 
found  an  ideal  which  would  have  surpassed  their  loftiest 
conceptions.  /Nor  was  it  only  an  impossible  idea/ ;  it  was 
an  ideal  rendered  attainable  by  the  impressive  sanction  of 
the  highest  authority,  and  one  which  supported  men  to  bear 
the  difficulties  of  life  with  fortitude,  with  peacefulness,  and 
even  with  an  inward  joy;  it  ennobled  their  faculties  without 


234 


ErlCTETUS. 


x 


overstraining  them;  it  enabled  them  to  disregard  the  bur- 
den of  present  trials,  not  by  vainly  attempting  to  deny  their 
bitterness  or  ignore  their  weight,  but  in  the  high  certainty 
that  they  are  the  brief  and  necessary  prelude  to  -  a  far 
more  exceeding  and  eternal  weight  of  glory/' 


MARCUS   AURELIUS. 


CHAPTER  I. 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  AN  EMPEROR. 


The  life  of  the  noblest  of  Pagan  Emperors  may  well  follow 
that  of  the  noblest  of  Pagan  slaves.  Their  glory  shines  the 
purer  and  brighter  from  the  midst  of  a  corrupt  and  deplor- 
able society.  Epictetus  showed  that  a  Phrygian  slave  could 
hve  a  life  of  the  loftiest  exaltation ;  Aurelius  proved  that  a 
Roman  Emperor  could  live  a  life  of  the  dee})est  humility. 
The  one — a  foreigner,  feeble,  deformed,  ignorant,  l)orn  ai 
squalor,  bred  in  degradation,  the  despised  chattel  of  a  des- 
picable freedman,  surrounded  by  every  depressing,  ignoble, 
and  pitiable  circumstance  of  life — showed  how  one  who 
seemed  born  to  be  a  wretch  could  win  noble  happiness  and 
immortal  memory;  the  other — a  Roman,  a  patrician,  strong, 
of  heavenly  beauty,  of  noble  ancestors,  almost  born  to  the 
purple,  the  favourite  of  Emperors,  the  greatest  conquerer, 
the  greatest  philosopher,  the  greatest  ruler  of  his  time — 
proved  for  ever  that  it  is  possible  to  be  virtuous,  and  tender, 
and  holy,  and  contented  in  the  midst  of  sadness,  even  on 
an  irresponsible  and  imperial  throne.     Strange  that,  of  the 


1 


236 


MARCUS  AURELIUS, 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  AN  EMPEROR. 


237 


two,  the  Emperor  is  even  sweeter,  more  simple,  more  admi- 
rable, more  humbly  and  touchingly  resigned,  than  the  slave. 
In  him,  Stoicism  loses  all  its  haughty  self-assertion,  all  its 
impracticable  paradox,  for   a  manly  melancholy  which  at 
o  ce  troubles  and  charms  the  heart/ "It  seems,"  says  M. 
IMartha.  '^that  in  him  the  philosophy  of  heathendom  grows 
less  proud,  draws  nearer  and  nearer  to  a  Christianity  which 
it  ignored   or  which  it  despised,  and  is  ready  to  lling  itself 
into'' the  arms  of  the  'Unknown  God/     In  the  sad  Medita- 
iions  of  Aurelius  we  find   a  pure   serenity,  sweetness,  and 
docility  to  the  commands  of  God,  which  before  him  were 
unknown,  and  which  Christian  grace  has   alone  surpassed. 
If  he  has  not  yet  attained  to   charity  in  all   that  fulness  of 
meaning  which  Christianity  has  given  to  the  word  he  has 
already  gained  its  unction,  and  one  cannot  read  his  book, 
unique  in  the  history  of  Pagan  philosophy,  without  thinking 
of  the  sadness  of  Pascal   and  the  gentleness  of  Fenelon. 
We  must  pause   before   this  soul,  so  lofty  and   so  pure,  to 
contemplate  ancient  virtue  in  its  softest  brilliancy,  to  see  the 
moral  delicacy  to  which  profane  doctrines  have  attained  - 
how  they  laid  down  their  pride,  and  how  penetrating  a  grace 
they  have  found  in  their  new  simplicity.      To  make  the 
example  yet  more  striking,  Providence,  which,  according  to 
the  Stoics,  does  nothing   by   chance,   determhied   that  the 
example  of  these  simple  virtues  should  bloom  in  the  midst 
of  all  human  grandeur— that  charity  should   be  taught  by 
the  successor  of  blood  stained  Caesars,  and   humbleness  of 

heart  bv  an  Emperor  'j 

Aurelius  has  always  exercised  a  powerful  fascination  over 
the  minds  of  eminent  men  ''If  you  set  aside,  for  a  mo- 
ment, the  contemplation  of  the  Christian  verities,"  says  the 
eloquent  and  thoughtful    Montesquieu,   -search  throughout 


all  nature,  and  you  will  not  find  a  grander  object  than  the 

Antonines One  feels  a  secret  pleasure  in  speaking  of 

this  Emperor;  one  cannot  read  liis  life  without  a  softening 
feehng  of  emotion.  He  produces  such  an  effect  upon  our 
minds  that  we  think  better  of  ourseh  es,  because  he  inspires 
us  with  a  better  opinion  of  mankind."  "  It  is  more  delight- 
ful," says  the  great  historian  Niebuhr,  "to  speak  of  Marcus 
Aurelius  than  of  any  man  in  history;  for  if  there  is  any  sub- 
lime human  virtue  it  is  his.  He  was  certainly  the  noblest 
character  of  his  time,  and  I  know  no  other  man  who  com- 
bined such  unaffected  kindness,  mildness,  and  humility,  with 
such  conscientiousness  and  severity  towards  himself.  We 
possess  innumerable  busts  of  him,  for  every  Roman  of  his 
time  was  anxious  to  possess  his  portrait,  and  if  there  is  any- 
where an  expression  of  virtue  it  is  in  the  heavenly  features 
of  Marcus  Aurehus." 

Marcus  Aurelius  was  born  on  April  26,  a.  d.  121.  His 
more  correct  designation  would  be  Marcus  Antoninus,  but 
since  he  bore  several  different  names  at  different  periods  of 
his  life,  and  since  at  that  age  nothing  was  more  common 
than  a  change  of  designation,  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to 
alter  the  name  by  which  he  is  most  popularly  recognised. 
His  father,  Annius  Verus,  who  died  in  his  Praetorship,  drew 
his  blood  from  a  line  of  illustrious  men  who  claimed  descent 
from  Numa,  the  second  King  of  Rome.  His  motlier,  Domi- 
tia  Calvilla,  was  also  a  lady  of  consular  and  kingly  race. 
The  character  of  both  seems  to  have  been  worthy  of  their 
high  dignity.  Of  his  father  he  can  have  known  little,  since 
Annius  died  when  Aurelius  was  a  mere  infant ;  but  in  his 
Meditations  he  has  left  us  a  grateful  memorial  of  both  his 
parents.  He  says  that  from  his  grandfather  he  learned  (or, 
might  have  learned)  good  morals  and  the  government  of  his 


238 


MARCUS  AURELIUS, 


temper;  from  the  reputation  and  remembrance  of  his  father, 
modesty  and  manUness;  from  his  mother,  piety,  and  benefi- 
cence, and  abstinence  not  o?ily  from  evil  deeds ^  but  even  from 
evil  thoughts ;  and,  furtlier,  simpHcity  of  hfe  far  removed 
from  the  habits  of  the  rich. 

The  childhood  and  boyhood  of  Am'eUus  fell  during  the 
reiizn  of  Hadrian.  The  times  were  better  than  those  which 
we  have  contemplated  in  the  reigns  of  the  Caesars.  After 
the  suicide  of  Nero  and  the  brief  reigns  of  Galba  and  Otho, 
the  Roman  world  had  breathed  more  freely  for  a  time 
under  the  rough  good  humour  of  Vespasian  and  the  philo- 
sophic virtue  of  Titus.  The  reign  of  Domitian,  indeed,  who 
succeeded  his  brother  Titus,  was  scarcely  less  terrible  and 
infamous  than  that  of  Caius  or  of  Nero ;  but  that  prince, 
shortly  before  his  murder,  had  dreamt  that  a  golden  neck  had 
grown  out  of  his  own,  and  interpreted  the  dream  to  indicate 
that  a  better  race  of  princes  should  follow  him.  The  dream 
was  fulfilled.  Whatever  may  have  been  their  other  faults, 
Nerva,  Trajan,  Hadrian,  w^ere  wise  and  kind-hearted  rulers; 
Antoninus  Pius  and  Marcus  Aurelius  were  among  the  very  gen- 
tlest and  noblest  sovereigns  whom  the  world  has  ever  seen. 

Hadrian,  though  an  able,  indefatigable,  and,  on  the  whole, 
beneficial  Emperor,  was  a  man  whose  character  was  stained 
with  serious  faults.  It  is,  however,  greatly  to  his  honour 
that  he  recognized  in  Aurelius,  at  the  early  age  of  six  years, 
the  germs  of  those  extraordinary  virtues  which  afterwards 
blessed  the  empire  and  elevated  the  sentiments  of  mankind. 
''Hadrian's  bad  and  sinful  habits  left  him,"  says  Niebuhr, 
"when  he  gazed  on  the  sweetness  of  that  innocent  child. 
Playing  on  the  boy's  paternal  name  of  Verus^  he  called  him 
Verissimus,  'the  most  true.'"  It  is  interesting  to  find  thai 
this  trait  of  character  was  so  early  developed  in  one  who 


THE  EDUCATIOX  OF  AX  EMPEROR, 


339 


thought  that  all  men  "should  speak  as  they  think,  with  an 
accent  of  heroic  verity.'^ 

Toward  the  end  of  his  long  reign,  worn  out  with  disease 
and  weariness,  Hadrian,  being  childless,  had  adopted  as  his 
son  L.  Ceionius  Commodus,  a  man  who  had  few  recom- 
mendations but  his  personal  beauty.  Upon  his  death,  which 
took  place  a  year  afterwards,  Hadrian,  assembling  the  sena- 
tors round  his  sick  bed,  adopted  and  presented  to  them  as 
their  future  Emperor  Arrius  Antoninus,  better  known  by  the 
surname  of  Pius,  which  he  won  by  his  gratitude  to  the  mem- 
ory of  his  predecessor.  Had  Aurelius  been  older — he  was 
then  but  seventeen — it  is  know^n  that  Hadrian  would  have 
chosen  ///;;/,  and  not  Antoninus,  for  his  heir.  The  latter, 
indeed,  who  was  then  fifty-two  years  old,  was  only  selected 
on  the  express  condition  that  he  should  in  turn  adopt  both 
Marcus  Aurelius  and  the  son  of  the  deceased  Ceionius. 
Thus,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  Aurelius,  who,  even  from  his 
infancy,  had  been  loaded  with  conspicuous  distinctions,  saw 
himself  the  acknowledged  heir  to  the  empire  of  the  world. 

We  are  happily  able,  mainly  from  his  own  writings,  to  give 
some  sketch  of  the  influences  and  the  education  which  had 
formed  him  for  this  exalted  station. 

He  was  brought  up  in  the  house  of  his  grandfather,  a 
man  who  had  been  three  times  consul.  He  makes  it  a  mat- 
ter of  congratulation,  and  thankfulness  to  the  gods,  that  he 
had  not  been  sent  to  any  public  school,  where  he  would  have 
run  the  risk  of  being  tainted  by  that  frightful  corruption  into 
which,  for  many  years,  the  Roman  youth  had  fallen.  He 
expresses  a  sense  of  obligation  to  his  great-grandfather  for 
having  supplied  him  with  good  teachers  at  home,  and  for  the  . 
conviction  that  on  such  things  a  man  should  spend  liberally./ 
There  was  nothing  jealous,  barren,  or  ilHberal,  in  the  train- 


i4<^ 


MARCUS  AURELIUS. 


ine  he  received.  He  was  fond  of  boxing,  wrestling,  run- 
ning;  he  was  an  adm'rable  player  at  ball,  and  he  was  fond 
of  the  perilous  excitement  of  hunting  the  wild  boar.  Thus, 
his  healthy  sports,  his  serious  studies,  his  moral  instruction, 
his  public  dignities  and  duties,  all  contributed  to  form  his 
character  in  a  beautiful  and  manly  mould.  There  are,  how- 
ever, three  respects  in  which  his  education  seems  especially 
worthy  of  notice ; — I  mean  tiie  diligence,  the  gratitude,  and 
the  hardiiicss  in  which  he  was  encouraged  by  others,  and 
which  lie  i^ractised  with  all  the  ardour  of  generous  convic- 
tion. 

1.  In  the  best  sense  of  the  word,  Aurelius  was  diligent. 
He  alludes  more  than  once  in  his  Meditations  to  the  inesti- 
mable value  of  time,  and  to  his  ardent  desire  to  gain  more 
leisure  for  intellectual  pursuits.  He  tlung  himself  with  his 
usual  undeviating  stedfastness  of  purpose  into  every  branch 
of  study,  and  though  he  deliberately  abandoned  rhetoric,  he 
toiled  hard  at  philosophy,  at  the  disciphne  of  arms,  at  the 
administration  of  business,  and  at  the  difficult  study  of 
Roman  jurisprudence.  One  of  the  acquisitions  for  which 
he  expresses  gratitude  to  his  tutor  Rusticus,  is  that  of  read- 
ing carefully,  and  n  >■  being  satisfied  with  the  superficial 
understanding  of  a  book.  In  fact,  so  strenuous  was  his 
labour,  and  so  great  h.s  abstemiousness,  that  his  health  suf- 
fered by  tliC  combination  of  the  two. 

2.  His  opening  remarks  show  that  he  remembered  all  his 
teachers — even  the  most  insignificant — with  sincere  grati- 
tude. He  regarded  each  one  of  them  as  a  man  from  whom 
something  could  be  learnt,  and  from  whom  he  actually  did 
learn  that  something.  Hence  the  honourable  respect — a 
respect  as  honourable  to  himself  as  to  them — which  he  i)aid 
to  Fronto,  to  Rusticus,  to  Julius  Proculus,  and  others  whon- 


THE  EDUCATION   OE  AN  EMPEROR. 


24 1 


his  noble  and  concientious  gratitude  raised  to  the  highest 
dignities  of  the  State.  He  even  thanks  the  gods  that  'Mie 
made  haste  to  place  those  who  brought  him  up  in  the  sta- 
tion of  honour  which  they  seemed  to  desire,  without  putting 
them  off  with  mere  hopes  of  his  doing  it  some  time  after, 
because  they  were  then  still  young."  He  was  far  the  supe- 
rior of  these  men,  not  only  socially  but  even  morally  and 
intellectually;  yet  from  the  height  of  his  exalted  rank  and 
cliaracter  he  delighted  to  associate  with  them  on  the  most 
friendly  terms,  and  to  treat  them,  even  till  his  death,  with 
affection  and  honour,  to  place  their  hkenesses  among  his 
household  gods,  and  visit  their  sepulchres  with  wreaths  and 
victims. 

3.  His  hardi}iess  and  self-denial  were  perhaps  still  more 
remarkable.  I  wish  that  those  boys  of  our  day,  who  think 
it  undignified  to  travel  second-class,  who  dress  in  the 
extreme  of  fashion,  wear  roses  in  their  buttonholes,  aad 
spend  upon  ices  and  strawberries  what  would  maintain  a 
poor  man  for  a  year,  would  learn  how  injinitely  more  noble 
was  the  abstinence  of  this  young  Roman,  who  though  born 
in  the  midst  of  splendour  and  luxury,  learnt  from  the  first  to 
loathe  the  petty  vice  of  gluttony,  and  to  despise  the  unman- 
liness  of  self-indulgence.  Very  early  in  life  he  joined  the 
glorious  fellowship  of  those  who  esteem  it  not  only  a  duty 
but  a  pleasure 


'*To  scorn  delights,  and  live  la])orious  days," 

and  had  learnt  "endurance  of  labour,  and  to  want  little, 
and  to  work  with  his  own  hands."  In  his  eleventh  year  he 
became   acquainted   with  Diognetus,  who   first    introduced 


/ 


242 


MARCUS  AURELIUS. 


him  to  the  Stoic  philosophy,  and  in  his  twelfth  year  he 
assumed  the  Stoic  dress.  This  philosophy  taught  him  ''  to 
prefer  a  p^ank  bed  and  skin,  and  whatever  else  of  the  kind 
belongs  to  the  Grecian  discipline."  It  is  said  that  ''the 
skin"  was  a  concession  to  the  entreaties  of  his  mother,  and 
and  that  the  young  philosopher  himself  would  have  chosen 
to  sleep  on  the  bare  boards  or  on  the  ground.  Yet  he 
acted  thus  without  self-assertion  and  without  ostentation. 
His  friends  found  him  always  cheerful;  and  his  calm  fea- 
tures,—in  which  a  dignity  and  thoughtfulness  of  spirit  con- 
trasted wath  the  bloom  and  beauty  of  a  pure  and  honoura- 
ble boyhood. — were  never  overshadowed  with  ill-temper  or 

with  gloom. 

The  guardians  of  Marcus  Aurelius  had  gathered  around 
him  all  the  most  distinguished  literary  teachers  of  the  age. 
Never  had  a  prince  a  greater  number  of  eminent  instructors ; 
ne^-er  were  any  teachers  made  happy  by  a  more  grateful,  a 
more  humble,  a  more  blameless,  a  more  truly  royal  and 
glorious  pupil.  Long  years  after  his  education  had  ceased, 
during  his  campaign  among  the  Quadi,  he  wrote  a  sketch 
of  what  he  owed  to  them.  This  sketch  forms  the  first 
book  of  his  Meditations,  and  is  characterised  throughout 
by  the  most  unaffected  simplicity  and  modesty. 

The  Meditations  of  Marcus  Aurelius  were  in  fact  his  pri- 
vate  diary,  they  are  a  noble  soliloquy  with  his  own  heart, 
an  honest  examination  of  his  own  conscience;  there  is  not 
the  slightest  trace  of  their  having  been  intended  for  any 
eye  but  his  own.  In  them  he  was  acting  on  the  principle 
of  St.  Augustine:  ''Go  up  into  the  tribunal  of  thy  con- 
science, and  set  thyself  before  thyself."  He  was  ever  bear- 
ing about — 


THE  EDUCATION     Or    AX  EMPEROR,  243 

*'A  silent  court  of  justice  in  himself, 
Himself  the  judge  and  jury,  and  himself 
The  prisoner  at  the  bar." 

And  writing  amid  all  the  cares  and  distractions  of  a  war 
which  he  detested,  he  averted  his  eyes  from  the  manifold 
wearinesses  whicli  daily  vexed  his  soul,  and  calmly  sat 
down  to  meditate  on  all  the  great  qualities  which  he  had 
observed,  and  all  the  good  lessons  that  he  might  have 
learnt  from  those  who  had  instructed  his  boyhood,  and  sur- 
rounded his  manly  years. 

And  what  had  he  learnt  ? — learnt  heartily  to  admire,  and 
{7ue  may  say)  learnt  to  practise  also?  A  sketch  of  his  first 
book  will  show  us.  What  he  had  gained  from  his.  immedi- 
ate parents  we  have  seen  already,  and  we  will  make  a  brief 
abstract  of  his  other  obhj"ations. 

From  "his  governor" — to  which  of  his  teachers  this 
name  applies  we  are  not  sure — he  had  learnt  to  avoid 
factions  at  tlie  races,  to  work  hard,  and  to  avoid  listening 
to  slander;  from  Diognetus,  to  despise  frivolous  supersti- 
tions, and  to  practise  self-denial;  from  Apollonius,  undevi- 
ating  steadiness  of  purpose,  endurance  of  misfortune,  and 
the  reception  of  favours  without  being  humbled  by  them; 
from  Sextus  of  Chaeronea  (a  grandson  of  the  celebrated 
Plutarch),  tolerance  of  tlie  ignorant,  gravity  without  affec- 
tation, and  benevolence  of  heart;  from  Alexander,  delicacy 
in  correcting  others;  from  Severus,  "a  disposition  to  do 
good,  and  to  give  to  others  readily,  and  to  cherish  good 
hope,  and  to  believe  tliat  1  am  beloved  of  my  friends;" 
from  Maximus,  ''sweetness  and  dignity,  and  to  do  what 
was  set  before  me  without  complaining;"  from  Alexander 
the  Platonic,  ^'  not  frequently  to  say  to  any  one,  no?'  to  lurite 
in  a  letter^  that  I  have  no  leisure ;  nor  continually  to  ex- 


244 


MARCUS  AURELIUS. 


cuse  the  neglect  of  ordinary  duties  by  alleging  urgent  occu- 
pations." 

To  one  or  two  others  his   obligations   were  still    more 
characteristic  and  important     From  Rusticus,  for  instance, 
an  excellent  and  able  man,  whose  advice  for  years  he  was 
accustomed  to  respect,  he  had  learnt  to   despise  sophistry 
and  display,  to  write  with  simplicity,  to  be  easily  pacified, 
to  be  accurate,  and— an  inestimable  benefit  this,  and  one 
which    tinged    the    colour    of  his    whole    life — to    become 
acquainted  with  the  Discourses  of  Epictetus.      And  from 
his   adoptive   father,   Ure~"great    Antoninus    Pius,    he    had 
derived   advantages  still    more   considerable.     In    him   he 
saw  the  -example  of  a  sovereign  and  statesman  firm,  self- 
controlled,    modest,   faithful,    and   even  tempered;   a  man 
who  despised  flattery  and  hated  meanness;  who  honoured 
the  wise  and  distinguished  the  meritorious;  who  was  indif- 
ferent to  contemptable  trifles,  and  indefatigable  in  earnest 
business;  one,  in  short,  'Svho  had  a  perfect  and  invincible 
soul,"  who,  like   Socrates,  'Svas  able  both  to  abstain  from 
and  to  enjoy  those  things  which   many  are   too  weak   to 
abstain   from   and   cannot  enjoy  without  excess."*     Piety, 
serenity,   sweetness,  disregard    of   empty  fame,    calmness, 
simplicity,  patience,  are  virtues  which  he  attributes  to  him 
in  another  full-length  portrait  (vi.  30)  which  he  concludes 
with  the  words.     ^'Imitate  all   this,  that  thou   mayest  have 
as  good  a  conscience  when  thy  last  hour  comes  as  he  had." 


♦  My  quotations  from  Marcus  Aurelius  will  be  made  (by  permission) 
from  the  forcible  and  admirably  accurate  translation  of  Mr.  Long.  In 
thanking  Mr.  Long.  I  may  be  allowed  to  add  that  the  English  reader 
will  find  in  his  version  the  best  means  of  becoming  acquainted  with  the 
purest  and  noblest  book  of  antiquity. 


TffE  EDrCATJOX  OF  AX  EMPEROR, 


245 


He  concludes  these  reminiscenses  of  thankfulness  with 
a  summary  of  what  he  owed  to  the  gods.  And  for  what 
does  he  tlianks  the  gods?  for  being  wealthy,  and  noble, 
and  an  emperor?  Nay,  for  no  vulgar  or  dubious  blessings 
such  as  these,  but  for  the  guidance  which  trained  him  in 
philosophy,  and  for  the  grace  which  kept  him  from  sin. 
And  here  it  is  that  his  genuine  modesty  comes  out.  As 
the  excellent  divine  used  to  say  when  he  saw  a  criminal  le  1 
past  for  execution,  ''There,  but  for  the  grace  of  God 
goes  John  Bradford,"  so,  after  thanking  the  gods  for  the 
goodness  of  all  his  family  and  relatives,  Aurelius  says,  ''  Fur- 
ther, I  owe  it  to  the  gods  that  1  was  not  hurried  into  any 
offence  agair.st  any  of  them,  though  I  had  a  disposition 
ivhich^  if  opportunity  had  offered^  might  have  led  me  to  do 
somethirg  of  this  kind;  but  through  their  favour  there 
never  was  such  a  concurrence  of  circumstances  as  put  me  to 
the  trial.  Further,  tliat  I  was  subjected  to  a  ruler  and  father 
who  took  away  all  pride  from  me,  and  taught  me  that  it 
was  possible  to  live  in  a  palace  without  guards,  or  embroid- 
ered dresses,  or  torches,  and  statues,  and  such-like  show, 
but  to  live  very  near  to  the  fashion  of  a  private  person, 
without  being  either  mean  in  thought  or  remiss  in  action; 
that  after  having  fallen  into  amatory  passions  I  was  cured; 
that  though  it  w^as  my  mothers  fate  to  die  young,  slie  spent 
the  last  years  0;'  lier  life  with  me;  that  whenever  I  washed 
to  help  any  man,  I  was  never  told  that  I  had  not  the 
means  of  doing  it; — that  I  had  abundance  of  good  masters 
for  my  children:  for  all  these  thing  require  the  help  of  the 
gods  and  fortune." 

The  whole  of  the  Emperor's  Meditations  deserve  the 
profou->d  study  of  this  age.  The  self-denial  which  they 
display  is  a   rebuke   to  our  ever-growing   luxury;  their  gen- 


24'^ 


MARCi  S  A  UK  ELI  US. 


THE  EDUCATIOX  OE  AX  EMPEROR. 


247 


erosity  contrasts  favourably  with  the  increasing  bitterness 
of  our  cynicism;  their  contented  acquiescence  in  God's 
will  rebukes  our  incessant  restlessness;  above  all,  theiri^ 
constant  elevation  shames  that  multitude  of  little  vices,! 
and  little  meannesses,  which  lie  like  a  scurf  over  the  con-I 
ventionality  of  modern  life.  But  this  earlier  chapter  has 
also  a  special  value  for  the  young.  It  offers  a  picture  which 
it  would  indeed  be  better  for  them  and  for  us  if  they  could 
be  induced  to  study.     If  even  under 

**  That  fierce  light  that  l)catsupon  the  throne," 


of  insight  will  never  come;  heroic  purity  of  heart  and  of 
eye;  noble  p'ous  valour  to  amend  us  and  the  age  of  bronze 
and  lacquers,  how  can  they  ever  come?  The  scandalous 
bronze-lacquer  age  of  hungry  animalisms,  spiritual  impo- 
tencies,  and  mendacities  will  have  to  run  its  course  till  the 
pit  swallow  it," 


the  life  of  Ma.rcus  Aurelius  shows  no  moral  stain,  it  is  still 
more  remarkable  that  the  free  and  beautiful  boyhood  of 
this  Roman  prince  had  early  learnt  to  recognise  only  the 
excellences  of  his  teachers,  their  patience  and  firmness, 
their  benevolence  and  sweetness,  their  integrity  and  vir- 
tue. Amid  the  frightful  universality  of  moral  corruption 
he  preserved  a  stainless  conscience  and  a  most  pure  soul; 
he  thanked  (xod  in  language  whicli  breathes  the  most  crys- 
talline delicacy  of  sentiment  and  langage,  that  he  liad 
preserved  uninjured  the  flower  of  his  early  life,  and  that 
under  the  calm  inlluences  of  his  home  in  the  country,  and 
ihe  studies  of  philosophy,  he  had  learnt  to  value  chastity 
as  the  sacred  girdle  of  youth,  to  be  retained  and  honoured 
to  his  latest  years.  ''Surely,"  says  Mr.  Carlyle,  "a  day 
is  coming  when  it  will  be  known  again  what  virtue  is  in 
puritv  and  coritinence  of  life  ;  how  divine  is  the  blush  of 
young  huma^.  cheeks;  how  high,  beneficent,  sternly  inex- 
orable is  the  (Uitv  laid  0/1  everv  creature  in  re2:ard  to  these 
particulais.  Well,  if  such  a  day  never  come,  then  I  per- 
ceive much  else  will  never  come.      Magnanimity  and  depth 


*4 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE  LIFE  AND  THOUGHTS  OF  MARCUS  AURELIUS. 


On  the  death  of  Hadrian  in  a.  d.  138,  Antoninus  Pius  suc- 
ceeded to  the  throne,  and,  in  accordance  with  the  late 
Emperor's  conditions,  adopted  Marcus  AureHus  and  Lucius 
Commodus.  -Marcus  had  been  betrothed  at  the  age  of 
fifteen  to  the  sister  of  Lucius  Commodus,  but  the  new 
Emperor  broke  off  the  engagment,  and  betrothed  him  in- 
stead to  liis  daughter  Faustina.  The  marriage,  however, 
was  not  celebrated  till  seven  years  afterwards,  a.  d.  146. 

The  long  reign  of  Antoninus  Pius  is  one  of  those  happy 
periods  that  have  no  history.  An  almost  unbroken  peace 
reigned  at  home  and  abroad.  Taxes  were  lightened, 
calamities  relieved,  informers  discouraged ;  confiscation 
were  rare,  plots  and  executions  were  almost  unknown. 
Throughout  the  whole  extent  of  his  vast  domain  the  people 
loved  and  valued  their  Emperor,  and  the  Emperor's  one 
aim  was  to  further,  the  happiness  of  his  people.  He,  too, 
hke  Aurelius,  had  learnt  that  what  was  good  for  the  bee 
was  good  for  the  hive.  He  strove  to  live  as  the  civil  ad- 
ministrator, of  an  unaggressive  and  united  republic;  he  dis- 
liked war,  did  not  value  the  military  title  of  Imperator,  and 
never  deigned  to  accept  a  triumph. 

With  this  wise  and  eminent  prince,  who  was  as  amiable 
in  his   private  relations  as    he    was    admirable    in    the  dis- 


IIIS  LIFE  AXD    THOUGHTS, 


249 


charge  of  his  public  duties,  Marcus  Aurelius  spent  the  next 
twenty-three  years  of  liis  life.  So  close  and  intimate  was 
their  union,  so  completely  did  they  regard  each  other  as 
father  and  son,  that  during  all  that  period  Aurelius  never 
slept  more  than  twice  away  from  the  house  of  Antoninus. 
There  was  not  a  sliade  of  jealousy  between  them;  each  was 
the  friend  and  adviser  of  the  other,  and,  so  far  from  regard- 
ing his  destined  lieir  with  suspicion,  the  Emperor  gave  him 
the  designation  ''Ciijsar,"  and  lieaped  upon  him  all 
the  honours  of  the  Roman  Commonwealth.  It  was  in  vain 
that  the  whisper  of  malignant  tongues  attempted  to  shake 
this  mutual  confidence.  Antoninus  once  saw  the  mother 
of  Aurelius  in  earnest  prayer  before  the  statue  of  Apollo. 
''  What  do  you  think  she  is  praying  for  so  intently?"  asked 
a  wretched  mischief-maker  of  the  name  of  Valerius  Omu- 
lus:  ''it  is  that  you  may  die,  and  her  son  reign."  This 
wicked  suggestion  m'ght  have  driven  a  prince  of  meaner 
character  inio  violence  and  disgust,  but  Antoninus  passed 
it  over  with  the  silence  of  contempt. 

It  was  the  main  delight  of  Antoninus  to  enjoy  the  quiet 
of  his  country  villa.  Unlike  Hadrian,  who  traversed  im- 
mense regions  of  his  vast  dominion,  Antoninus  lived  entirely 
either  at  Rome,  or  in  his  beautiful  villa  at  Lorium,  a  little 
seacoast  villacre  about  twelve  miles  from  the  capital.  In 
this  villa  he  had  been  born,  and  here  he  died,  surrounded 
by  the  reminiscences  of  his  childhood.  In  this  his  real 
home  it  was  his  special  pleasure  to  lay  aside  the  pomp  and 
burden  of  his  imperial  rank.  ''He  did  not,"  says  Marcus, 
"take  the  bath  at  unseasonable  hours;  he  was  not  fond  of 
building  houses,  nor  curious  about  what  he  eat,  nor  about 
the  texture  and  colour  of  his  clothes,  nor  about  the  beauty 
of  his  slaves."     Even  tne  dress  he  wore  was  the  work  of  the 


^^ 


250 


MARCUS  AURELIUS, 


HIS  LIFE  AND    Til  OUGHTS. 


251 


provincial  artist  in  his  little  native  place.  So  far  from  check- 
ing the  philosophic  tastes  of  his  adopted  son  he  fostered 
them,  and  sent  for  ApoUonius  of  Chalcis  to  be  his  teacher 
in  the  doctrines  of  Stoicism.  In  one  of  his  notes  to  Fronto, 
iNlarcus  draws  the  picture  of  their  simple  country  occupa- 
tions and  amusements.  Hunting,  fishing,  boxing,  wrest- 
ling, occupied  the  leisure  of  the  two  princes,  and  they  sliared 
the  rustic  festivities  of  the  vintage.  ^"  I  have  dined,"  he 
writes,  ^'on  a  little  l)read.  .  .  .  We  perspired  a  great  deal, 
shouted  a  great  deal,  and  left  some  gleanings  of  the  vintage 
hanging  on  the  trellis  work.  .  .  .  Whe  1  \  got  home  1  studied 
a  little,  but  not  to  much  advantage  I  had  a  long  talk  with 
my  mother,  who  was  lying  on  her  couch."  \\'ho  knows 
how  much  Aurelius  and  how  much  the  world  may  have 
gained  from  such  conversation  as  this  with  a  mother  from 
whom  he  had  learnt  to  hate  even  the  thought  of  evil?  Nor 
will  any  one  despise  the  simplicity  of  heart  which  made  him 
mingle  with  the  peasants  as  an  amateur  vintager,  unless  he 
is  so  tasteless  and  so  morose  as  to  think  with  scorn  of 
Scipio  aiKl  Lcelius  as  they  gathered  shells  on  the  seashore, 
or  of  Henr\'  IV.  as  he  played  at  horses  with  his  little  boys 
on  all-fours.  The  capability  of  unbending  thus,  the  genuine 
cheerfulness  which  enters  at  due  times  into  simple  amuse- 
ments, has  been  found  not  rarely  in  the  highest  and  purest 
minds. 

For  many  years  no  incident  of  importat^ce  broke  the  even 
tenor  of  Aurelius's  Hfe.  He  lived  peaceful,  happy,  prosper- 
ous, and  beloved,  watching  without  envy  the  increasing 
years  of  his  adopted  father.  But  in  the  year  161,  when  Marcus 
was  now  forty  years  old,  Antoninus  Pius,  who  had  readied 
the  age  of  seventy-five,  caught  a  fever  at  Lorium.  Feeling 
that  his  end  was   near,  he  summoned  his   friends  and   the 


chief  men  of  Rome  to  his  bedside,  and  there  (without  say- 
ing a  word  about  his  other  adopted  son,  who  is  generally 
known  by  the  name  of  Lucius  Verus)  solemnly  recom- 
mended Marcus  to  them  as  his  successor ;  and  then,  giving 
to  the  captain  of  the  guard  the  watchword  of  '^  Equanimity," 
as  though  his  earthly  task  was  over  he  ordered  to  be  trans- 
ferred to  the  bedroom  of  ]\Iarcus  the  Httle  golden  statue  of 
Fortune,  which  was  kept  in  the  private  chamber  of  the 
Emperors  as  an  omen  of  public  prosperity. 
/^  The  very  first  public  act  of  the  new  Emperor  was  one  of 
splendid  generosity,  namely,  the  admission  of  his  adoptive 
brother  Lucius  Verus  into  the  fullest  participation  of  im- 
perial honours,  the  Tribunitian  and  proconsular  powers, 
and  the  titles  Ci\3sar  and  Augustus.  The  admission  of 
Lucius  Verus  to  a  share  of  the  empire  was  due  to  the  innate 
modesty  of  Marcus.  As  he  was  a  devoted  student,  and 
cared  less  for  manly  exercises,  in  which  Verus  excelled,  he 
thought  fliat  his  adoptive  brother  would  be  a  better  and 
more  useful  general  than  himself,  and  that  he  could  best 
serve  the  State  by  retaining  the  civil  administration,  and 
entrusting  to  his  brother  the  management  of  war.  Verus, 
however,  as  soon  as  he  got  away  from  the  immediate  influ- 
ence and  ennobling  society  of  Marcus,  broke  loose  from  all 
decency,  and  showed  himself  to  be  a  weak  and  worthless 
personage,  as  unfit  for  war  as  he  was  for  all  the  nobler 
duties  of  peace,  and  capable  of  nothing  but  enormous  glut- 
tony and  disgraceful  self-indulence.  Two  things  only  can 
be  said  in  his  favour;  the  one,  that,  though  depraved,  he 
was  wholly  free  from  cruelty ;  and  the  other,  that  he  had 
the  good  sense  to  submit  himself  entirely  to  his  brother,  and 
to  treat  him  with  the  gratitude  and  deference  which  were 
his  due. 


2.2 


Marccs  aurelius. 


IMarcus  had  a  large  family  by  Faustina,  and  in  the  first 
year  of  his  reign  his  wife  bore  twins,  of  whom  the  one  who 
survived  became  the  wicked  and  detested  Emperor  Com- 
modus.  As  though  the  birth  of  such  a  child  were  in  itself 
an  omen  of  ruin,  a  storm  of  calamity  began  at  once  to 
burst  over  the  long  tranquil  State.  An  inundation  of  the 
Tiber  flung  down  houses  and  streets  over  a  great  part  of 
Rome,  swept  away  multitudes  of  cattle,  spoiled  the  har- 
vests, devastated  the  fields,  and  caused  a  distress  which 
ended  in  wide-spread  famine.  Men's  minds  were  terrified 
by  earthquakes,  by  the  burning  of  cities,  and  by  plagues  or 
noxious  insects.  To  these  miseries,  which  the  Emperors 
did  their  best  to  alleviate,  was  added  the  horrors  of  wars 
and  rumours  of  wars.  The  Partians,  under  their  king  Vol- 
ogeses,  defeated  and  all  but  destroyed  a  Roman  army,  and 
devastated  with  impunity  the  Roman  province  of  Syria. 
The  wild  tribes  of  the  Catti  burst  over  Germany  with  fire 
and  sword ;  and  the  news  from  Britain  was  full  of  insurrec- 
tion and  tumult.  Such  were  the  elements  of  trouble  and 
discord  which  overshadowed  the  reign  of  Marcus  Aurelius 
from  its  very  beginning  down  to  its  weary  close. 

As  the  Partian  war  was  the  most  im})ortant  of  the  three, 
Verus  was  sent  to  quell  it,  and  but  fo;;  the  ability  of  his 
generals — the  greatest  of  whom  was  Avidius  Cassius — 
would  have  ruined  irretrievably  the  fortunes  of  the  Empire. 
These  generals,  however,  vindicated  the  majesty  of  the 
Roman  name,  and  Verus  returned  in  triumph,  bringing 
back  with  him  from  the  East  the  seeds  of  a  terrible  pesti- 
lence which  devastated  the  whole  Empire  and  by  which,  on 
the  outbreak  of  fresh  wars,  Verus  himself  was  carried  oft^  at 
Aquileia. 

Worthless  as  he  was,  Marcus,  who  in  his   lifetime  had  so 


HIS  LIFE  AND  THOUGHTS. 


253 


often  pardoned  and  concealed  his  faults,  paid  him  th 
highest  honours  of  sepulcre,  and  interred  his  ashes  in  the 
mausoleum  of  Hadrian.  There  were  not  wanting  some 
who  charged  him  with  the  guilt  of  fratricide,  asserting  that 
the  death  of  Verus  had  been  hastened  by  his  means  ! 

I  have  only  one  reason  for  alluding  to  atrocious  and  con- 
temptible calumnies  like  these,  and  that  is  because — since 
no  doubt  such  whispers  reached  his  ears — they  help  to  ac- 
count for  that  deep  unutterable  melancholy  which  breathes 
through  the  little  golden  book  of  tlie  Emperor's  Meditations. 
We  find,  lor  instance,  among  them  this  isolated  frag- 
ment : — 

"  A  black  character,  a  womanish  character,  a  stubborn 
character,  bestial,  childish,  animal,  stupid,  counterfeit,  scur- 
rilous, fraudulent,  tyrannical." 

We  know  not  of  whom  he  was  thinking — perhaps  of 
Nero,  perhaps  of  Caligula,  but  undoubtedly  also  of  men 
whom  he  had  seen  and  known,  and  whose  very  existence 
darkened  his  soul.  The  same  sad  spirit  breathes  also 
through  the  following  passages  : — 

"  Soon,  very  soon,  thou  wilt  be  ashes,  or  a  skeleton,  and 
either  a  name,  or  not  even  a  name  ;  but  name  is  sound  and 
echo.  And  the  things  which  are  much  valued  in  life  are 
empty,  and  rotten,  and  trifling,  and  /itt/e  dogs  Siting  one 
another^  and  little  children  quarrelling^  laughing^  and  then 
straightivay  7ueeping,  Biit fidelity^  and  modesty^  and  justice, 
and  truth  are  fled 

'*  *  Up  to  Olympus  from  the  wide-spread  earth.'  " 


(v.  33) 

"  Itwould  be  a  man's  happiest  lot  to  depart  from  man- 


254 


MARCUS  A  UR  ELI  US. 


kind  without  having  had  a  taste  of  lying,  and  hypocrisy, 
and  luxury,  and  pride.  However  to  breathe  out  one's  life 
when  a  man  has  had  enough  of  those  things  is  the  next  best 
voyage,  as  the  saying  is."     (ix.  2.) 

Enough  of  this  wretched  lifc^  and  murmurmg,  and  apish 
trifles.  Why  art  thou  thus  disturbed  ?  What  is  there  new 
in  this  ?  What  unsettles  thee  ?  .  .  .  .  Towards  the  gods, 
then,  now  become  at  last  more  simple  and  better."  (ix. 
37.)  The  thought  is  like  that  which  dominates  through  the 
Penitential  Psalms  of  David,— that  we  may  take  refuge 
from  men,  their  malignity  and  their  meanness,  and  find  rest 
for  our  souls  in  God.  From  men  David  has  no  hope; 
mockery,  treachery,  injustice,  are  all  that  he  expects  from 
them, — the  bitterness  of  his  enemies,  the  far-off  indifterence 
of  his  friends.  Nor  does  this  greatly  trouble  him,  so  long 
as  he  does  not  wholly  lose  the  light  of  God's  countenance. 
''  I  had  no  place'to  flee  unto,  and  no  man  cared  for  my 
soul.  I  cried  unto  thee,  O  Lord,  and  said,  Thou  art  my 
hope,  and  my  portion  in  the  land  of  the  living."  ''  Cast 
me  not  away  from  Thy  presence,  and  take  not  Thy  Holy 
Spirit  from  me. 

But  whatever  may  have  been  his  impulse  at  times  to 
give  up  in  despair  all  attempt  to  improve  the  "little  breed" 
of  men  around  him,  :>Iarcus  had  schooled  his  gentle  spirit 
to  live  continually  in  far  other  feelings.  Were  men  con- 
temptible ?  It  was  all  the  more  reason  why  he  should  him- 
self be  noble.  Were  men  petty,  and  malignant,  and  pas- 
sionate and  unjust  ?  In  that  proportion  were  they  all  the 
more  marked  out  for  pity  and  tenderness,  and  in  that  pro- 
portion was  he  bound  to  the  utmost  of  his  ability  to  show 
himself  great,  and  forgiving,  and  calm,  and  true.  Thus 
Marcus  turns  his    very   bitterest   experience  to  gold,    and 


HIS  LIFE  AND   THOUGHTS, 


25s 


from  the  vilenesses  of  others,  which  depressed  his  lonely 
life,  so  far  from  suffering  himself  to  be  embittered  as  well 
as  saddened,  he  only  draws  fresh  lessons  of  humanity  and 
love. 

He  says,  for  instance,  '^  Begin  the  morning  by  saying  to 
thyself,  I  sha/I  meet  laith  the  busybody,  the  ungrateful,  arro- 
gant, deceitful,  envious,  unsocial.  All  these  things  happen  to 
them  by  reason  of  their  ignorance  of  what  is  good  a?id  anL 
But  I  who  have  seen  the  nature  of  the  good  that  it  is  beau- 
tiful, and  of  the  bad  that  it  is  ugly,  and  the  nature  of  him 
that  does  wrong  that  is  akin  to  me,  .  .  .  and  that  it  par- 
takes of  the  same  portion  of  the  divinity,  I  can  neither  be 
injured  by  any  of  them,  for  no  one  can  fix  on  me  what  is 
ugly,  nor  can  I  be  angry  with  my  kinsman,  nor  hate  him. 
For  we  are  i?iade  for  co-eperation,  like  feet,  like  hands,  like 
eyelids,  like  the  rows  of  the  upper  and  lower  teeth.  To 
act  against  one  another  then  is  contrary  to  nature  ;  and  // 
is  acting  against  one  another  to  be  vexed  and  turn  away." 
(ii.  I.)  Another  of  his  rules,  and  an  eminently  wise  one, 
was  to  fix  his  thoughts  as  much  as  possible  on  the  virtues 
of  others,  rather  than  on  their  vices.  *'  When  thou  wishest 
to  delight  thyself,  think  of  the  virtues  of  those  who  live  with 
thee — the  activity  of  one,  the  modesty  of  another,  the  Hb- 
erality  of  a  third,  and  some  other  good  quality  of  a  fourth." 
What  a  rebuke  to  the  contemptuous  cynicism  which  we  are 
daily  tempted  to  display  !  "  An  infinite  being  comes  before 
us,"  says  Robertson,  "with  a  whole  eternity  wrapt  up  in  his 
mind  and  soul,  and  \\q  proceed  to  classify  him, put  a  label 
upon  hi?? I,  as  we  7uould  upon  ajar,  sayi?ig,  This  is  7'ice,  that 
is  jelly,  and  this  pomatum;  and  then  we  think  we  have 
raved  ourselves  the  necessity  of  taking  off  the  cover,  How 
d'.fferently  our  Lord  treated  the  people  who  came  to  Him  ! 


256 


MARCUS  A  URELIUS. 


HIS  LIFE  AXn   THOUGHTS. 


257 


....  consequently,  at  His   touch  each  one  gave   out  his 
peculiar  spark  of  light." 

Here,  again,  is  a  singularly  pithy,  comprehensive,    and 

beautiful  piece  of  advice  : — 

"  Men  exist  for  the  sake  of  one  another.  Teacn  them  or 
bear  with  themr  (viii.  59.) 

And  again  :  ''  The  best  way  of  -^yenging  thyself  is  not 
to  become  Hke  the  wrong  doer." 

And  again,  ''If  any  man  has  done  wrong,  the  harm  is  his 
own.     But  perhaps  he  has  not  done  wrong."  (ix.  ^Z.) 

Most  remarkable,  however,  are  the  nine  rules  which  he 
drew  up  for  himself,  as  subjects  for  reflection  when  any  one 
had  offended  him,  viz. — 

1.  That  men  were  made  for  each  other :  even  the  in- 
ferior for  the  sake  of  the  superior,  and  these  for  the  sake  of 

one  another. 

2.  The  invincible  influences  that  act  upon  men,  and 
mould  their  opinions  and  their  acts. 

3.  That  sin  is  mainly  error  and  ignorance, — an  involun- 
tary slavery. 

4.  That  we  are  ourselves  feeble,  and  by  no  means  immac- 
ulate \  and  that  often  our  very  abstinence  from  faults  is 
due  more  to  cowardice  and  a  care  for  our  reputation  than 
to  any  freedom  from  the  disposition  to  commit  them. 

5.  That  our  judgments  are  apt  to  be  very  rash  and 
premature.  ''  And  in  short  a  man  must  learn  a  great  deal 
to  enable  him  to  pass  a  correct  judgment  on  another  man's 


acts 


>> 


6.  When  thou  art  much  vexed  or  grieved,  consider  that 
man's  life  is  only  a  moment,  and  after  a  short  time  we  are 

all  laid  out  dead." 

7.  That  no  wrongful  act  of  another  can  bring  shame  on 


us,  and  that  it  is  not  men's  acts  which  disturb  us,  but  our 
own  opinions  of  them. 

8.  That   our    own    anger   hurts   us   more  than    the  acts 
themselves. 

9.  That  benevolence  is  invi?icibh%  if  it  be  ?iot  an  affected 
smile,  nor  acting  a  part.  "  For  what  will  the  most  violent 
man  do  to  thee  if  thou  continuest  benevolent  to  him? 
gently  and  calmly  correcting  him,  admonishing  liim  wlien 
he  is  trying  to  do  thee  harm,  saying,  'Not  so,  my  child : 
we  are  co?istitiited  by  nature  for  so?nething  else  :  I  shall  cer- 
tainly 7iot  be  i?ijured,  but  thou  art  injuring  thyself  my  child.' 
And  show  him  with  gentle  tact  and  by  general  principles 
that  this  is  so,  and  that  even  bees  do  not  do  as  he  does, 
nor  any  gregarious  animal.  And  this  you  must  do  simply, 
unreproachfully,  afi'ectionately ;  without  rancour,  and  if  pos- 
sible when  you  and  he  are  alone."  (xi.  18.) 

'' Not  SO,  ?ny  child;  thou  art  injuring  thyself,  my  child." 
Can  all  antiquity  show  anything  tenderer  than  this,  or  any- 
thing more  close  to  the  spirit  of  Christian  teaching  than 
these  nine  rules  ? /They  were  worthy  of  the  men  who,  un- 
like the  Stoics  in  general,  considered  gentleness  to  be  a  vir- 
tue, and  a  proof  at  once  of  philosophy  and  of  true  manhood. 
They  are  written  with  that  effusion  of  sadness  and  benevo- 
lence to  which  it  is  difficult  to  find  a  parallel./  They  show 
how  completely  Marcus  had  triumphed  over  all  petty  mal- 
ignity, and  how  earnestly  he  strove  to  fulfil  his  own  precept 
of  always  keeping  the  thoughts  so  sweet  and  clear,  that  ''if 
any  one  should  suddenly  ask,  '  What  hast  thou  now  in  thy 
thoughts  ?'  with  perfect  openness  thou  mightest  immedi- 
ately answer,  '  This  or  That.'  "  In  short,  to  give  them 
their  highest  praise,  they  would  have  delighted  the  great 
Christian  Apostle  who  wrote, — 


258 


MARCUS  AURELIUS, 


''  Warn  them  that  are  unruly,  comfort  the  feeble-minded, 
support  the  weak,  be  patient  towards  all  men.  See  that 
none  render  evil  for  evil  unto  any  man;  but  ever  follow 
that  which  is  good,  both  among  yourselves,  and  to  all  men." 

(i  Thess.  iv.  14.  15.) 

"Count  him  not  as  an  enemy,  but  admonish  him  as  a 

brother."  (2.  Thess.  iv.  15.) 

*' Forbearing  one  another,  and  forgiving  one  another,  if 
any  man  have  a  quarrel  against  any."  (Col.  iii.  13.) 

Nay,  are  they  not  even  in  full  accordance  with  the  mind 
and  spirit  of  Him  who  said, — 

"  If  thy  brother  trespass  against  thee,  go  and  tell  him  his 
fault  betiveen  thee  and  him  alofie :  if  he  shall  hear  thee  thou 
hast  gai7ied  thy  br other T 

In  the  life  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  as  in  so  many  lives,  we  are 
able  to  trace  the  great  law  of  compensation.  His  exalted 
station,  during  the  later  years  of  his  Hfe,  threw  him  among 
many  who  were  false  and  Pharisaical  and  base ;  but  his 
youth  had  been  spent  under  happier  conditions,  and  this 
saved  him  from  falHng  into  the  sadness  of  those  whom 
neither  man  nor  woman  please.  In  his  earlier  years  it  had 
been  his  lot  to  see  the  fairer  side  of  humanity,  and  the  re- 
collection of  those  pure  and  happy  days  was  like  a  healing 
tree  thrown  into  the  bitter  and  turbid  waters  of  his  reign. 


chaptf:r  III. 

THE    LIFE    AND  THOUGHTS  OF  MARCUS  AURELIUS  (continued), 

Marcus  was  now  the  undisputed  lord  of  the  Roman 
world.  He  was  seated  on  the  dizziest  and  most  splendid 
eminence  which   it  was    possible  for   human  grandeur  to 

obtain. 

But  this  imperial  elevation  kindled  no  glow  of  pride  or 
self-satisfaction  in  his  meek  and  chastened  nature.  He 
regarded  himself  as  being  in  fact  the  servant  of  all.  It 
was  his  duty,  like  that  of  the  bull  in  the  herd,  or  the  ram 
among  the  flocks,  to  confront  every  peril  in  his  own  person, 
to  be  foremost  in  all  the  hardships  of  war  and  the  most 
deeply  immersed  in  all  the  toils  of  peace.  The  registry  of 
the  citizens,  the  suppression  of  litigation,  the  elevation  of 
public  morals,  the  restraining  of  consanguineous  marriages, 
the  care  of  minors,  the  retrenchment  of  public  expenses, 
the  limitation  of  gladitorial  games  and  shows,  the  care  of 
roads,  the  restoration  of  senatorial  privileges,  the  appoint- 
ment of  none  but  worthy  magistrates — even  the  regulation 
of  street  trafiic — these  and  numberless  other  duties  so  com- 
pletely absorbed  his  attention  that,  in  spite  of  indifferent 
health,  they  often  kept  him  at  severe  labour  from  early 
morning  till  long  after  midnight.  His  position  indeed  often 
necessitated  his  presence  at  games  and  shows,  but  on  these 

8 


■4 

M 


.4 


26o 


MARCUS  AVRELIUS, 


occasions  he  occupied  himself  either  in  reading,  or  being 
read  to,  or  in  writing  notes.  He  was  one  of  those  who 
held  that  nothing  should  be  done  hastily,  and  that  few 
crimes  were  worse  than  the  waste  of  time.  It  is  to  such 
views  and  such  habits  that  we  owe  the  compositions  of  his 
works.  His  MeditatioJis  were  written  amid  the  painful  self- 
denial  and  distracting  anxieties  of  his  wars  with  the  Quadi 
and  the  Marcomanni,  and  he  was  the  author  of  other  works 
which  unhappily  have  perished.  Perhaps  of  all  the  lost 
treasures  of  antiquity  there  are  few  which  we  should  feel  a 
greater  wish  to  recover  than  the  lost  autobiography  of  this 
wisest  of  Emperors  and  holiest  of  Pagan  men. 

As  for  the  external   trappings   of  his   rank, — those   gor- 
geous adjuncts  and  pompous  circumstances  which  excite 
the  wonder  and  envy  of  mankind, — no  man  could  have 
shown  himself  more   indifferent  to  them.      He   recognized 
indeed  the  necessity  of  maintaining  the  dignity  of  his  high 
position.     "  Every  moment,"  he  says,    ''  think  steadily  as  a 
Roman  and  a  man  to  do  what  tJiou  hast  in  hand  with  per- 
fect and  simple  dignity,  and  affection,  and  freedom,  and  jus- 
tice "  (ii.  5);  and  again,    '-Let  the  Deity  which   is  in  thee 
be  the  guardian  of  a  living  being,  7?ianly  and  of  ripe  age, 
and  engaged  in  matters  political,  and  a  Roman,  and  a  ruler, 
wlio  has  taken  liis  post  like  a  man  waiting  for  the  signal 
which  summons  him  from  life"    (hi.  5).     But  he  did  not 
think  it  necessary  to  accept  the  fulsome  honours  and  degrad- 
ing adulations  whicli  were  so  dear  to  many  of  his  predeces- 
sors.    He  refused  the  pompous  blasphemy  of  temples  and 
altars,  saying  that  for  every  true  ruler  the  world  was  a  tem- 
ple, and  all  good  men  were  priests.      He  declined  as  much 
as  possible  all  golden  statues  and  triumphal  designations. 
All  inevitable  luxuries  and  splendour,  such  as  his  public  duties 


HIS  LIFE  AXD   THOUGHTS, 


261 


rendered  indispensable,  he  regarded  as  a  mere  hollow  show. 
Marcus  Aurelius  felt  as  dee[)ly  as  our  own  Shakespeare 
seems  to  have  felt  t'le  unsubstantiality,  the  fleeting  evanes- 
cence of  all  earthly  things  :  he  would  have  delighted  in  the 
sentiment  that, 

**  ]Ve  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  7nade  on,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  by  a  sleep. " 

**  When  we  have  meat  before  us,"  he  says,  '"'  and  such 
eatables,  we  receive  the  impression  that  this  is  the  dead 
body  of  a  fish,  aiid  tins  is  tlie  dead  body  of  a  bird,  or  of  a 
pig  ;  a7id,  again,  that  this  Juileria/i  is  only  a  little  grape- 
juice,  and  this pi^rple  robe  some  sheef  s  7Uool  dyed  with  the 
blood  of  a  shellfish:  such  then  are  these  impressions,  and 
they  reacii  the  things  themselves  and  penetrate  them,  and 
so  we  see  what  kind  of  things  they  are.  Just  in  the  same 
way  ....  where  there  are  things  which  appear  most 
worthy  of  our  approbation,  we  ought  to  lay  them  bare,  and 
look  at  their  7i'orthlessness,  and  strij)  them  of  all  the  words 
by  which  the\'  are  exalted."   (vi.  13.) 

*'  \\'hat  is  worth  being  valued  ?  To  be  received  with 
clai)ping  of  hands  ?  No.  Neither  must  we  value  the  clap- 
ping of  tongues,  for  the  praise  which  comes  from  the  many 
is  a  clapping  of  tongues."  (vi.  16.) 

*'Asia,  Europe,  are  corners  of  the  universe;  all  the  sea 
is  a  drop  in  the  universe ;  Athos  a  little  clod  of  the  uni- 
verse ;  all  the  present  time  is  a  point  in  eternity.  All 
things  are  little,  changeable,  perishable.''   (vi.  36.) 

And  to  Marcus  too,  no  less  than  to  Shakespeare,  it 
seemed  that — 


262 


MARCUS  AURELIUS, 


**  All  the  world's  a  stage, 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players ;" 

for  he  writes  these  remarkable  words  : — 

''  The  idle  bus 'mess  of  show,  plays  on  the  stage,  flocks  of 
sheep,  herds,  exercises  with  spears,  a  bone  cast  to  little  dogs, 
a  bit  of  bread  in  fishponds,  labour ifigs  of  ants,  and  burden- 
carrying  runnings  about  of  frightened  little  mice,  puppets 
pulled  by  strings— XXv.'^  is  what  Hfe  resembles.  It  is  thy 
dnty  then  in  the  midst  of  such  things  to  show  good  humour, 
and  not  a  proud  air ;  to  understand  however  that  every  7nan 
IS  worth  just  so  much  as  the  things  are  worth  about  which 

he  busies  himself 

In  fact,  the   Court  was  to  Marcus  a  burden ;  he  tells  us 
himself  that  Philosophy  was  his  mother,    Empire  only  his 
stepmother ;  it  was  only  his  repose  in  the  one  that  rendered 
even  tolerable  to  him  the  burdens  of  the  other.     Emperor 
as  he  was,  he  thanked  the  gods  for  having  enabled  him  to 
enter  into  the  souls  of  a  Thrasea,  an   Helvidius,  a  Cato,  a 
Brutus.     Above  all,  he  seems  to  have  had  a  horror  of  ever 
becoming  like  some  of  his  predecessors ;  he  writes  : — 
/**Take  care  that  thou  art  not  made  into  a  Coesar;*  take 
care  thou  art  not  dyed  with  this  dye.     Keep  thyself  then 
simple,  good,  pure,   serious,  free  from  affectation,  a  friend 
of  justice,   a  worshipper  of   the    gods,   kind,    affectionate, 
strenuous  in  all  proper  acts.     Reverence  the  gods  and  help 
men.     Short  is  life.     There  is  only  one  fruit  of  this  terrene 
lify   a  pious  disposition  and  social  acts''   (iv.  19,)/' 

It  is  the  same  conclusion  as  that  which  sorrow  forced 

♦Marcus  here  invents  what  M.  Martha  justly  calls  **an  admirable 
barbarism''  to  express  his  disgust  towards  such  men — opa  fxi}  anvxai- 
daoooOT/i — *'take  care  not  to  be  CcEsariscd:'' 


HIS  LIFE  AND  Til  OUGHTS, 


263 


from  another  weary  and  less  admirable  king:  *'Let  us  hear 
the  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter :  Fear  God,  and  keep 
His  commandments;  for  this  is  the  whole  duty  of  man." 


But  it  is  time  for  us  to  continue  the  meagre  record  of  the 
life  of  Marcus,  so  far  as  tlie  bare  and  gossiping  compila- 
tions of  Dion  Cassius,*  and  Capitolinus,  and  the  scattered 
allusions  of  other  writers  can  enable  us  to  do  so. 

It  must  have  been  with  a  heavy  heart  that  he  set  out 
once  more  for  Germany  to  face  the  dangerous  rising  of  the 
Quadi  and  Marcomanni.  To  obtain  soldiers  suflicient  to 
fill  up  the  vacancies  in  his  army  which  had  been  decimated 
by  the  plague,  he  was  forced  to  enrol  slave- ;  and  to  obtain 
money  he  had  to  sell  the  ornaments  of  the  palace,  and  even 
some  of  tlie  Empress's  jewels.  Immediately  befoie  he 
started  his  heart  was  wrung  by  the  death  of  his  little  boy, 
the  twin-brother  of  Commodus,  whose  beautiful  features  are 
still  preserved  for  us  on  coins.  Early  in  the  war,  as  he  was 
trying  tlie  depth  of  a  ford,  he  was  assailed  by  the  enemy 
with  a  sudden  storm  of  missiles,  and  was  only  saved  from 
imminent  death  by  bei;ig  slieltered  beneatli  the  shields  of 
his  soldiers.  One  battle  was  fought  o;i  the  ice  of  the  win- 
try Danube.  But  by  far  tlie  most  celebrated  event  of  the 
war  took  place  in  a  great  v'.ctory  over  tlie  Quadi  which  he 
won  in  A. D.  174,  and  whicli  was  attributed  by  the  Chris- 
tians to  what  is  known  as  tliC  *'  ?>Iirac]e  of  the  Thundering 
Legion." 

Divested  of  ail  exi raucous  additions,  llie  fact  which  oc- 
curred,— as  established  by  the  e\i(lencc  of  medals,  and  by 
one  of  the  bassi  relievi  on  the  **  Column  of  Antoiiine," — ap- 
pears to  have  been  as  follows.      iMarcus  Aurelius  and  Iiis 

*  As  c^  i:oin:s?d  by  Xij)hilinus. 


ri 


264 


^MARCUS  AURELIUS. 


HIS  LIFE  AM)    THOUGHTS. 


265 


army  had  been  e  itangled  in  a  mountain  defile,  into  which 
they  had  too  hastily  pursued  a  sham  retreat  of  the  barbarian 
archers.     In  this  defile,  unable  either  to  fight  or  to  fly,  pent 
in  by  the  enemy,  burned  up  with  the  scorching  heat  and 
tormented  by  thirst,  they  lost  all  hope,  burst  into   wailing 
and  groans,  and  yielded  to  a  despair  from  which  not  even 
the  strenuous  e.Torts  of  IMarcus  could  arouse  them.     At  the 
most  critical  moment  of  their  danger  and  misery  tlie  clouds 
began  to  gather,  and  heavy  shows  of  rain  descended,  v/hxh 
the  soldiers  caught  in  their  shields  and   lielmets  to  q;iench 
their  own  thirst  and  that  of  their  horses.     While  they  were 
thus  engaged  the  enemy  attacked  them  ;  but  t!:e  rain  was 
mingled  with  hail,  and  fell  with  blinding  fux-y  in  the  faces  of 
the  barbarians.     The  storm   was    also    accompanied  with 
thunder  and  lightning,  which  seems   to  have  damaged  the 
enemy,  and  filled  them  with  terror,  while  no    casualty  oc- 
cured  in  the  Roman  ranks.     The   Romans  accordingly  re- 
garded this  as  a  Divine  interposition,  and  achieved  a  most 
decisive  victory,  whicli  proved  to  be  the  practical  conclu- 
sion of  a  hazardous  and  important  war. 

The  Christians  regarded  the  event  not  ?<s  providential  but 
as  miraculous,  and  attributed  it  to  the  prayers  of  their 
brethren  in  a  legion  which,  from  this  circumstance,  received 
the  name  of  the  ''  Thundering  Legion."  It  is  however  now 
known  that  one  of  the  legions,  distinguished  by  a  flash  of 
lightning  which  was  represented  on  their  shields,  had  been 
known  by  this  name  since  the  time  of  Augustus  ;  and  the 
Pagans  themselves  attributed  the  assistance  which  they  had 
received  sometimes  to  a  prayer  of  the  pious  Emperor  and 
sometimes  to  the  incantations  of  an  P^gyptian  sorcerer 
named  Arnuphis. 

One  of  the  Fathers,  the  passionate  and  eloquent  Tertul- 


1 


lian,  attributes  to  this  deliverance  an  interposition  of  the 
Emperor  in  favour  of  the  Christians,  and  appeals  to  a  letter 
of  his  to  the  SCiiate  in  which  he  acknowledged  how  effectual 
had  been  the  aid  he  had  received  from  Christian  prayers, 
and  forbade  any  one  hereafter  to  molest  the  followers  of  the 
new  religion,  lest  they  should  use  against  him  the  weapon 
of  supplication  which  had  been  so  powerful  in  his  favour. 
This  letter  is  preserved  at  the  e.id  of  the  Apology  of  Justin 
^Martyr,  and  it  adds  that,  n-rc  only  are  no  Christians  to  be 
injured  or  persecuted,  but  that  any  one  who  informed 
acfainst  them  is  to  be  burned  alive  !  We  see  at  once  that 
this  letter  is  one  of  those  impudent  and  transparent  for- 
o-erics  in  which  the  literature  of  the  first  five  centuries  un- 
hai^pily  abounds.  What  was  the  real  relation  of  Marcus  to 
the  Christians  we  shall  consider  hereafter. 

To  the  gentle  heart  of  Marcus,  all  war,  even  when  accom- 
panied w";h  victories,  was  eminently  distasteful;  and  in  such 
painful  and  ungenial  occupations  no  small  part  of  his  life  was 
passed.  What  he  thought  of  war  and  of  its  successes  is 
graphically  ^:et  forth  in  the  following  remark: — 

''A  spider  is  1  roud  when  it  has  caught  a  fly,  and  another 
when  lie  has  caught  a  poor  hare,  and  another  when  he  has 
taken  a  little  fir.h  in  a  net,  and  another  when  he  has  taken 
wild  boars  or  bears,  and  aiiot/icr  when  he  Jias  taken  Sar?na- 
tians.  Are  not  these  robbers,  when  thou  examiner^t  their 
principles?"  He  here  condemns  his  own  involuntary  ac- 
t:ons;  but  it  was  his  unhappy  destiny  not  to  have  trodden 
out  the  embers  of  tins  war  before  he  was  burdened  unth 
another  far  more  };ainiul  and  for  mid -^ble. 

This  was  trie  revolt  of  Avidius  Cassius,  a  general  of  the 
old  blunt  ROiiian  type,  whom,  in  spite  of  some  ominous 
warnings,  Alarcus  both  loved  and  trusted.      The  ingratitude 


"'^: 


266 


MARCUS  AURELIUS. 


HIS  LIFE  AND  THOUGHTS. 


267 


displayed  by  such  a  man  caused  Marcus  the  deepest  anguish ; 
but  he  was  saved  from  all  dangerous  consequences  by  the 
wide-spread  affection  which  he  had  inspired  by  his  virtuous 

reign. 

The  very  soldiers  of  the  rebellious  general  fell  away  from 
him  ;  and,  after  he  had  been  a  nominal  Emperor  for  only 
three  months  and  six  days,  he  was  assassinated  by  some  of 
his  own  officers.  His  head  was  sent  to  Marcus,  who  re- 
ceived it  wath  sorrow,  and  did  not  hold  out  to  the  murder- 
ers the  slightest  encouragement.  The  joy  of  success  was 
swallowed  up  in  regret  that  his  enemy  had  not  lived  to  al- 
low him  the  luxury  of  a  genuine  forgiveness.  He  begged 
the  Senate  to  pardon  all  the  family  of  Cassius,  and  to  suffer 
this  single  life  to  be  the  only  one  forfeited  in  consequence 
of  civil  war.  The  Fathers  received  these  proofs  of  elemency 
with  the  rapture  which  they  deserved,  and  the  Senate-house 
resounded  with  acclamations  and  blessings. 

Never  had  a  formidable  conspiracy  been  more  quietly 
and  effectually  crushed.  Marcus  travelled  through  the  prov- 
inces which  had  favoured  the  cause  of  Avidius  Cassius, 
and  treated  them  all  with  the  most  complete  and  indulgent 
forbearance.  When  he  arrived  in  Syria,  the  correspond- 
ence of  Cassius  was  brought  to  him,  and,  with  a  glorious 
magnanimity  of  which  history  affords  but  few  examples,  he 
consigned  it  all  to  the  flames  unread. 

During  this  journey  of  pacification,  he  lost  his  wife  Faus- 
tina, who  died  suddenly  in  one  of  the  valleys  of  Mount 
Taurus.  History,  or  the  collection  of  anecdotes  which  at 
this  period  often  passes  as  history,  has  assigned  to  Faustina 
a  character  of  the  darkest  infamy,  and  it  has  even  been 
made  a  charge  against  Aurelius  that  he  overlooked  or  con- 
doned her  offences.     As  far  as  Faustina  is  concerned,  we 


have  not  much  to  say,  although  there  is  strong  reason  to 
be'ieve  that  many  of  the  stories  told  of  her  are  scandalously 
exaggerated,  if  not  absolutely  false.  Certain  it  is,  that 
most  of  the  imputations  upon  her  memory  rest  on  the 
malignant  anecdotes  recorded  by  Dion,  who  dearly  loved 
every  piece  of  scandal  whicli  degraded  human  nature.  The 
specific  charge  brought  against  her  of  having  tempted  Cas- 
sius from  his  allegiance  is  wholly  unsupported,  even  if  it  be 
not  absolutely  incompatible  with  what  we  find  in  her  own 
extnat  letters;  ar.d,  finally,  Marcus  himself  not  only  loved 
her  tenderly,  as  the  kind  mother  of  his  eleven  children,  but 
in  his  Mcditaiiojis  actually  thanks  the  gods  for  having 
granted  him  ''  such  a  wife,  so  obedient  so  affectionate,  and 
so  simple."  No  doubt  Faustina  was  unworthy  of  her 
husband ;  but  surely  it  is  the  glory  and  not  the  slmme  of  a 
noble  nature  to  be  averse  from  jealousy  and  suspicion,  and 
to  trust  to  others  more  deeply  than  they  deserve. 

So  blameless  was  tlie  conduct  of  Marcus  Aurelius  that 
neither  the  malignity  of  contemporaries  nor  the  sprit  of 
posthumous  scandal  has  succeeded  in  discovering  any  flaw 
in  the  extreme  integrity  of  his  hfe  and  principles.  But 
meanness  will  not  be  baulked  of  its  victims.  The  hatred  of 
all  excellence  which  made  Caligula  try  to  put  down  the 
memory  of  great  men  rages,  though  less  openly,  in  the 
minds  of  many.  They  delight  to  degrade  human  life  into 
that  dull  and  barren  plain  'Mn  which  every  molehill  is  a 
mountain,  and  everv  thistle  a  forest-tree."  Great  men  are 
as  small  in  their  eyes  as  they  are  said  to  be  in  the  eyes  of 
their  valets;  and  there  are  multitudes  who,  if  they  find 

**  Some  stain  or  blemish  \\\  a  name  of  note, 
Not  grieving  that  their  greatest  are  so  small, 
Inflate  themselves  \\'ith  some  insane  delight, 


268 


MARCUS  AURELIUS. 


And  judge  all  nature  from  her  feet  of  clay, 
Without  the  will  to  lift  their  eyes,  and  see 
Her  godlike  head  crown'd  with  spiritual  fire, 
And  touching  other  worlds." 

This  I  suppose  is  the  reason  why,  faiHng  to  drag  down 
Marcus  Aurehus  from  liis  moral  elevation,  some  have 
attempted  to  assail  his  reputation  because  of  the  supposed 
vileness  of  Faustina  and  the  actual  depravity  of  Commodus. 
Of  Faustina  I  have  spoken  already.  Respecting  Commo- 
dus. 1  think  it  sufficient  to  ask  with  Solomon:  ^'Who 
knoweth  whether  his  son  shall  be  a  wise  man  or  a  fool?" 
Commodus  was  but  nineteen  when  his  f.ither  died;  for  the 
first  three  years  of  his  reign  he  ruled  respectably  and 
acceptably.  Marcus  Aurelius  had  left  no  eflort  untried  to 
have  him  trained  aright  by  the  first  teachers  and  the  wisest 
men  whom  the  age  produced;  a;.d  Ilerodian  distinctly  tells 
us  that  he  had  lived  virtuously  up  to  the  time  of  his  father's 
death.  Setting  aside  natural  affection  altogether,  and  even 
assuming  (as  I  should  conjectiu-e  from  one  or  two 
passages  of  his  Meditations)  that  Marcus  had  mis- 
givings about  his  son,  would  it  have  been  easy,  would  it 
have  been  even  possible,  to  set  aside  on  general  grounds  a 
son  who  had  attained  to  years  of  maturity?  However  this 
may  be,  if  there  are  any  wlio  think  it  worth  while  to  cen- 
sure Marcus  because,  after  all,  Commodus  turned  out  to  be 
but  ''a  warped  slip  of  wilderness,"  their  censure  is  hardly 
suffic'ently  discriminating  to  deserve  the  trouble  of  refuta- 
tion. 

"But  Marcus  Aurelius  cruelly  persecuted  the  Christians." 
Let  us  briefly  consider  this  cliarge.  That  persecutions 
took  place  in  his  reign  is  an  uiidcniable  fact,  and  is  suffi- 
ciently  evidenced    by  the  Apologies  of  Justin    Martyr,   of 


HIS  LIFE  AND    THOUGHTS 


269 


Melito  Bishop  of    Sardis,  of  Athenagoras,    and  of  Apolli- 
narius,  as  well  as  by  the   Letter   of  the   Church  of  Smyrna 
describing  the  martyrdom   of   Polycarp,  and   that   of  the 
Churches  of  Lyons  and  Vienne   to  their  brethren  in  Asia 
Minor.     It  is  fair,  however,  to  mention  that  tl^ere  is  some 
documentary  evidence  on  the  other  side ;  Lactantius  clearly 
asserts  that  under  the  reigns  of  those  excellent  princes  v/ho 
succeeded  Domitian  the  Church  suffered  no  violence  from 
her  enemies,  and  ''spread  her  hands  towards  the  East  and 
the  West:"  Tertullian,  writing  but  twenty  years  after  the 
death  of  ISLarcus,  d'.stinctly  says  (and  Eusebius  quotes  the 
assertion),  that  there  were  letters  of  the  Emperor,  in  which 
he  not  only  attributed  his  delivery  amor.g  the  Quadi  to  the 
prayers  of  Christian  soldiers  in  the  Thundering   Legion," 
but  ordered  any  Avho  informed  against  the  Christians  to  be 
most  severely  punished;  and  at  the  end  of  the  works  of  Jus- 
tin Martyr  is  fo;nid  a   letter  of  similar  purport,  which   is 
asserted  to  have  been  addressed  by  Marcus  to  the  Senate 
of  Rome.     We  may  set  aside  these  peremptory  testimonies, 
we  may  believe  that    Tertullian    and    Eusebius  were  mis- 
taken, and  that  the  documents  to  which  they  referred  were 
spurious ;  but  this  should  make  us  also  less  certain  about 
the  prominent  participation  of  the  Emperor  in  these  perse- 
cutions.    My  own  belief  is  ( and  it  is  a  belief  which  could 
be  supported  by  many  critical  arguments),  that  his  share  in 
causing  them  was  almost  infinitesimal.     If  those  who  love 
his  memory  reject  the  evidence  of  Fathers  in  his  favour, 
they  may  be  at  least  permitted  to  withold  assent  from  some 
of  the  assertions  in  virtue  of  which  he  is  condemned. 

Marcus  in  his  Meditations  alludes  to  the  Christians  once 
only,  and  then  it  is  to  make  a  passing  complaint  of  the 
indifference  to  death,  which  appeared  to  him,  as  it  appeared 


i 


270 


MARCUS  AURELIUS, 


\i 


HIS  LIFE  AND    THOUGHTS. 


271 


1 


to  Epictetus,  to  arise,  not  from  any  noble  principles,  but 
from  mere  obstinacy  and  perversity.  That  he  shared  the 
profound  dislike  with  which  Christians  were  regarded  is  very 
probable.  That  he  was  a  cold-blooded  and  virulent  perse- 
cutor is  utterly  unlike  his  whole  character,  essentially  at 
variance  with  his  habitual  clemency,  alien  to  the  spirit 
which  made  him  interfere  in  every  possible  instance  to  mit- 
igate the  severity  of  legal  punishments,  and  may  in  short  be 
regarded  as  an  assertion  which  is  altogether  false.  Who 
will  believe  that  a  man  who  during  his  reign  built  and  ded- 
icated but  one  single  temple,  and  that  a  Temple  to  Benefi- 
cence; that  a  man  who  so  far  from  showing  any  jealousy 
respecting  foreign  religions  allowed  honour  to  be  paid  to 
them  all;  tliat  a  man  whose  writings  breathe  on  every  page 
the  inmost  spirit  of  philanthropy  and  tenderness,  went  out 
of  his  way  to  join  in  a  persecution  of  the  most  innocent, 
the  most  courageous,  and  the  most  inoftensive  of  his  sub- 
jects? 

The  true  state  of  the  case  seems  to  have  been  this.  The 
deep  calamities  in  which,  during  the  whole  reign  of  Marcus 
the  Empire  was  involved,  caused  widespread  distress,  and 
roused  into  peculiar  fury  the  feelings  of  the  provincials 
against  men  whor.e  atheism  (for  such  they  considered  it  to 
be)  had  kindled  the  anger  of  the  gods.  This  fury  often 
broke  out  into  paroxisms  of  popular  excitement,  which 
none  but  the  firmest-minded  governers  were  able  to  mod- 
erate or  to  repress.  Marcus,  when  appealed  to,  simply  let 
the  existing  law  take  its  usual  course.  That  law  was  as  old 
as  the  time  of  Trajan.  The  young  Pliny,  Governor  of 
Bithynia,  had  written  to  ask  Trajan  how  he  was  to  deal  with 
the  Christians,  whose  blamelessness  of  life  he  fully  admitted, 
but  whose  doctrines,  he  said,  had  emptied  the  temples  of 


the  gods,  and  exasperated  their  worshippers.  Trajan  in 
reply  had  ordered  that  the  Christians  should  not  be  sought 
for,  but  that,  if  they  were  brought  before  the  governor,  and 
proved  to  be  contumacious  in  refusing  to  adjure  their  reli- 
gion, they  were  then  to  be  put  to  death.  Hadrian  and  Anto- 
Pius  had  condnued  the  same  policy,  and  Marcus  Aurilius 
ninus  saw  no  reason  to  alter  it.  But  this  law,  which  in  quiet 
times  might  become  a  mere  dead  letter,  might  at  more  troubled 
periods  be  converted  into  a  dangerous  engine  of  persecution, 
as  it  was  in  the  case  of  the  venerable  Polycarp,  and  in  the 
unfortunate  Churches  of  Lyons  and  Vienne.  The  Pagans 
believed  that  the  reason  why  their  gods  were  smiUng  in 
secret, — 

**  Looking  over  wasted  lands, 
Blight  and  famine,   plague  and  earthquake,   roaring  deeps   and  fiery 

sands,  — 
Clanging  fights,  and  llaming   towns,   and    sinking  ships,   and   praying 

hands, — 

was  the  unbelief  and  impiety  of  these  hated   Galileans, 
causes  of  offence  which  could  only  be  expiated  by  the  death 
of    the    guilty.      ''Their  enemies,"   says  TertuUian,   ''call 
aloud  for  the  blood  of  the  innocent,  alleging  this  vain  pre- 
text for  their  hatred,  that  they  beheve  the  Christians  to  be 
the  cause  of  every  public  misfortune.      If  the  Tiber  has 
overflowed  its  banks,  or  the  Nile  has  not  overflowed,  if 
heaven  has  refused  its  rain,  if  famine  or  the  plague  has 
spread  its  ravages,  the  cry  is  immediate,  '  The  Christians  to 
the  lions.'"     In  the   first  three  centuries  the   cry   of  "No 
Christianity"  became  at  times  as  brutal,  as  violent,  and  as 
unreasoning  as  the  cry  of  "No  Popery"  has  often  been  in 
modern  days.     It  was  infinitely  less  disgraceful  to  Marcus 


272 


MARCUS  AURELIUS, 


to  lend  his  ear  to  the  one  than  it  has  been  to  some  eminent 
modern  statesmen  to  be  carried  away  by  the  insensate  fury 
of  the  other. 

To  what  extent  is  Marcus  AureHus  to  be  condemned  for 
the  martyrdoiiis  which  took  place  in  his  reign?  Not,  I 
think,  heavily  or  indiscriminately,  or  with  vehement  sweep- 
ing censure.  Common  j  ustice  surely  demands  that  we  should 
not  con^'use  the  present  witli  the  past,  or  pass  judgment  on 
the  conduct  of  the  Emperor  as  though  he  were  living  in  the 
nine'.ccnth  century,  or  as  though  he  liad  been  acting  in  full 
cognisance  of  the  Gospels  and  the  stories  of  the  Saints. 
Wise  and  good  men  before  him  had,  in  their  haughty  igno- 
rance, spoken  of  Christianity  with  execration  and  contempt 
The  ])hiIosophers  who  surrounded  his  throne  treated  it  with 
jealousy  and  aversion.  The  body  of  the  nation  firmly  be- 
lieved t':e  current  rumours  wh!ch  C'::arged  its  votaries  with 
horrible  midnight  assemblies,  rendered  infamous  by  Thyes- 
tian  banquets  and  the  atrocities  of  nameless  superstitions. 
These  foul  cakimnies — these  hideous  charges  of  cannibalism 
and  incest, — were  supported  by  the  reiterated  perjury  of 
slaves  under  torture,  which  in  that  age,  as  well  as  long 
afterwards,  was  preposterously  regarded  as  a  sure  criterion 
of  truth. 

Christianity  in  that  day  was  confounded  with  a  multitude 
of  debased  and  foreign  superstitions  ;  and  the  Emperor  in 
his  judicial  capacity,  if  he  ever  encountered  Christians  at 
all,  was  far  more  Hkely  to  encounter  those  who  were  un 
worthy  of  the  name,  than  to  become  acquinted  with  the 
meek,  unworldly,  retiring  virtues  of  the  calmest,  the  holiest, 
and  the  best.  When  we  have  given  their  due  weight  to 
considerations  such  as  these  we  shall  be  ready  to  pardon 
Marcus  Aurelius  for  having,  in  this  matter,  acted  ignorantly 


HIS  LIFE  AND    THQUGHTS, 


m 


and  to  admit  that  in   persecuting  Christianity  he  may  most 
honestly  have  thought  that  he  was  doing  God  service.     The 
very  sincerity  of  his  beUef,  the  conscientiousness  of  his  rule, 
the  intensity  of  his  philanthrophy,  the  grandeur  of  his  own 
philosophical  tenets,  all  conspired  to  make  him  a  worse 
enemy  of  the  Church  than  a  brutal  Commodus  or  a  disgust- 
ing Helioa^balus.     And  yet  that  there  was  not  in  him  the 
least  propensity  to  persecute ;  that  these  persecutions  were 
for  the  most  part  spontaneous  and  accidental;  that  they  were 
in  no  measure  due  to  his  direct  instigation,  or  in  special 
accordance  with  his  desire,  is  clear  from   the  fact  that  the 
martyrdoms  took    place  in    Gaul  and  Asia  Minor,  not  in 
Rome,     There  must  have  been  hundreds  of  Christians  m 
Rome,  and    under    the  very  eye  of    the    Emperor;    nay, 
there  were  even  multitudes  of  Christians  in  his  own  army ; 
yet  we  never  hear  of  his  having  molested  any  of  them. 
Melito,  Bishop   of  Sardis,  in    addressing  the  Emperor,  ex- 
presses a  doubt  as  to  whether  he  was  really  aware  of  the 
manner  in  which  his  Christian  subjects  were  treated.     Jus- 
tin  Martyr,  in  his  Apology,  addresses  him  in  terms  of  per- 
fect confidence  and   deep  respect.      In  short  he  was  in  this 
matter    ^^  blameless,    but    unfortunate."     It   is   painful   to 
think    that   the    venerable    Polycarp,    and    the   thoughtful 
Justin  may  have  forfeited   their  lives  for  their  principles, 
not  only  in  the  reign  of  so  good  a  man,  but  even  by  virtue 
of  his  authority ;  but  we  must  be  very  uncharitable  or  very 
unimaginative  if   we  cannot  readily  believe   that,   though 
they  had  received  the  crown  of  martyrdom  from  his  hands, 
the    redeemed  spirits  of  those  great   martyrs  would  have 
been  the  first  to  welcome  this  holiest  of  the  heathen  into  the 
presence  of  a  Saviour  whose  Church  he  persecuted,  but  to 
whose  indwelling  Spirit  his  virtues  were  due,  whom  igno^ 


274 


MARCUS  AURELIUS. 


rantly  and  unconsciously  he  worshipped,  and  whom  had  he 
ever  heard  of  Him  a.^l  known  Him,  he  would  have  loved 
in  his  heart  and  glorified  by  the   consistency  of  his  noble 

and  stainless  life. 

The  persecution  of  the  Churches  in  Lyons  and  Vienne 
happened  in  a.d.  177.  Shortly  after  this  period  fresh  wars 
recalled  the  Emperor  to  the  North.  It  is  said  that,  in 
de-ipair  of  ever  seeing  him  again,  the  chief  men  of  Rome 
entreated  him  to  address  them  his  farewell  admonitions, 
and  that  for  three  days  he  discoursed  to  them  on  philo- 
sophical questions.  When  he  arrived  at  the  seat  of  war, 
victory  again  crowned  his  arms.  But  Marcus  was  now 
getting  old,  and  he  was  worn  out  with  the  toils,  trials,  and 
travels  of  his  long  and  weary  life.  He  sunk  under  mental 
anxieties  and  bodily  fatigues,  and  after  a  brief  illness  died 
in  Pannonia,  either  at  Vienna  or  Sirmium,  on  March  17, 
A.D.  180,  in  the  fifty-ninth  year  of  his  age  and  the  twentieth 

of  his  reign. 

Death  to  him  was  no  calamity.  He  was  sadly  aware  that 
"there  is  no  man  so  fortunate  that  there  shall  not  be  by 
him  when  he  is  dying  some  who  are  pleased  with  what  is 
going  to  happen.  Suppose  that  he  was  a  good  and  wise 
man,  wall  there  not  be  at  last  some  one  to  say  of  him,  'Let 
us  at  last  breathe  freely,  being  relieved  from  this  school- 
master. It  is  true  that  he  was  harsh  to  none  of  us,  but  I 
perceive  that  he  tacitly  condemns  us.'  .  .  .  Thou  wilt  con- 
sider this  when  thou  art  dying,  and  wilt  depart  more  con- 
tentedly by  reflecting  thus:  'I  am  going  2.\s2.y  from  a  life  ui 
■which  even  7ny  associates,  on  behalf  of^vhoni  I  have  striven, 
and  cared,  and  prayed  so  7nuch,  themselves  wish  me  to  de- 
part, hoping  perchance  to  get  some  little  advantage  by  it' 
Why  then  should  a  man  cli:  g  to  a  longer  stay  here  ?     Do 


HIS  LIFE  AND    THOUGHTS, 


275 


7iot,  however,  for  this  reason  go  aivay  less  kindly  disposed  to 
them,  but  preserving  thy  oiun  character,  a?id  contifinijig 
friendly,  and  benevolent,  and  kijuC  And  dreading  death 
far  less  than  he  dreaded  any  departure  from  the  laws  of 
virtue,  he  exclaims,  "  Come  cjuickly,  O  Death,  for  fear  that 
at  last  I  should  forget  myself."  This  utterance  has  been 
well  compared  to  the  language  which  Bossuet  put  into  the 
mouth  of  a  Christian  soul  \—''  O  Death;  thou  dost  not 
trouble  my  designs,  thou  accomplishest  them.  Haste,  then, 
O  favourable  Death  !  .  .  .  .  Nunc  Dimittisr 

A  nobler,  a  gentler,  a  purer,  a  sweeter  soul,— a  soul  less 
elated  by  prosperity,  or  more  constant  in  adversity — a  soul 
more  fitted  by  virtue,  and  chastity,  and  self-denial  to  enter 
into  the  eternal  peace,  never  passed  into  the  presence  of  its 
Heavenly  Father.  We  are  not  surprised  that  all,  whose 
means  permitted  it,  possessed  themselves  of  his  statues,  and 
that  they  were  to  be  seen  for  years  afterwards  among  the 
household  gods  of  heathen  families,  who  felt  themselves 
more  hopeful  and  more  happy  from  tlie  glorious  sense  of 
possibility  which  was  inspired  by  the  memory  of  one  who, 
in  the  midst  of  difficulties,  and  breathing  an  atmosphere 
heavy  with  corruption,  yet  showed  himself  so  wise,  so  great, 
so  good  a  man. 

-  O  framed  for  nobler  times  and  calmer  hearts  ! 
O  studious  thinker,  eloquent  for  truth  ! 
Philosopher,  despising  wealth  and  death, 
But  patient,  childlike,  full  of  life  and  love  ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 


THE    ^'  MEDITATIONS  "    OF   MARCUS    AURELIUS. 


Emperor  as  he  was,  Marcus  Aurelius  found  himself  in  a 
hollow  and  troublous  world ;  but  he  did  not  give  himself 
up  to  idle  regret  or  querulous  lamentations.  If  these  sor- 
rows and  perturbations  came  from  the  gods,  he  kissed  the 
hand  that  smote  him  ;  "  he  delivered  up  his  broken  sword 
to  Fate  the  conqueror  with  a  humble  and  a  manly  heart.'* 
In  any  case  he  had  duties  to  do,  and  he  set  himself  to  per- 
form them  with  a  quiet  heroism — zealously,  conscientiously, 
even  cheerfully. 

The  principles  of  the  Emperor  are  not  reducible  to  the 
hard  and  definite  lines  of  a  philosophic  system.  But  the 
great  laws  which  guided  his  actions  and  moulded  his  views 
of  life  were  few  and  simple,  and  in  his  book  ot  Meditations^ 
which  is  merely  his  private  diary  written  to  relieve  his  mind 
amid  all  the  trials  of  war  and  government,  he  recurs  to  them 
again  and  again.  "  Plays,  war,  astonishment,  torpor, 
slavery/'  he  says  to  himself,  *'will  wipe  out  those  holy  prin- 
ciples of  thine ;"  and  this  is  why  he  committed  those  prin- 
ciples to  writing.  Some  of  these  I  have  already  adduced, 
and  others  I  proceed  to  quote,  availing  myself,  as  before, 
of  tlie  beautiful  and  scholar-like  translation  of  Mr.  George 
Long. 


HIS   ''MEDITATIOXS 


"   M 


277 


AH  pain,  and  misfortune,  and  ughness  seemed  to  the  Em- 
peror to  be  most  wisely  regarded  under  a  threefold  aspect, 
namely,  if  considered  in  reference  to  the  gods,  as  being  due 
to  laws  beyond  their  control ;  if  considered  with  reference 
to  the  nature  of  things,  as  being  subservient  and  necessary; 
and  if  considered  with  reference  to  ourselves,  as  being  de- 
pendent on  the  amount  of  indifference  and  fortitude  with 
wliich  we  endure  them. 

The    following  passages    will    elucidate    these  points   of 

view : — 

"-  The  intelligence  of  the  Universe  is  social.  Accordingly 
it  has  made  the  inferior  things  for  the  sake  of  the  superior, 
and  it  has  fitted  the  superior  to  one  another."  (v.  30.) 

''  Things  do  not  touch  the  soul,  for  they  are  eternal,  and 
remain  immovable  ;  but  our  perturbations  come  only  from 
the  opinion  which  is  within.  .  .  .  The  Universe  is  Transfor- 
mation ;  life  is  opiJiionT  (iv.  3.) 

''To  the  jaundiced  honey  tastes  bitter,  and  to  those 
bitten  by  mad  dogs  water  causes  fear;  and  to  little  children 
the  ball  is  a  fine  thing.  Why  then  am  I  angry?  Dost  thou 
think  that  a  false  opinion  has  less  power  than  the  bile  in  the 
jaundiced,  or  the  poison  in   him   vrho  is  bitten  by  a  mad 

dcg?"  (vi.  52.) 

'•  How  easy  it  is  to  repel  and  to  wipe  away  every  impres- 
sion which  is  troublesome  and  unsuitable,  and  immediately 
to  be  at  tranquillity."  (v.  2.) 

The  passages  in  which  Marcus  speaks  of  evil  as  a  relative 
thing, — as  being  good  in  the  mailing,--  the  unripe  and  bitter 
bud  of  that  which  shall  be  hereafter  a  beautiful  flovver, — 
aUhough  not  expressed  with  perfect  c.earness,  yet  indicate 
his  belief  that  our  view  of  evil  things  rises  in  great  measure 


278 


MARC  is  ACRE  LI  US. 


from  our  inability  to  perceive  the  great  whole  of  which  they 
are  but  subservient  parts. 

''All  things,"  he  sa^s,  ''  come  from  tliat  universal  ruling 
power,  either  directly  or  by  way  of  consequence.  Afid  ac- 
cordvigly  the  Uoii s  gaping  jaius^  and  that  7c>hich  is  poisonous^ 
and  every  hurtful  things  as  a  thorn,  as  niud^  are  after-pro- 
ducts of  the  grand  and  beautiful.  Do  not  therefore  imagine 
that  they  are  of  another  kind  from  that  which  thou  dost 
venerate,  but  form  a  just  opinion  of  the  source  of  all." 

In  another  curious  i)assage  he  says  that  all  things  which 
are  natural  and  congruent  with  tb.e  causes  wiiich  produce 
them  have  a  certain  beauty  and  attractiveness  of  their  own  ; 
for  instance,  the  splittings  and  corrugations  on  tlie  surface 
of  bread  when  it  has  been  baked.  ''  And  again,  figs  when 
they  are  ([uite  ripe  gape  o}jen  ;  and  in  the  ripe  olives  the 
very  circumstances  of  their  being  near  to  rottenness  adds  a 
peculiar  beauty  to  tlie  fruit.  And  the  ears  of  cor?i  bending 
down,  and  the  /ion's  eyehroius.,  and  the  foam  7uhieh  Jloios 
from  the  mouth  of  wild  boars,  and  many  other  things — • 
though  ihey  are  far  from  being  beautiful,  if  a  man  should 
examine  them  severally — still,  because  they  are  consequent 
upon  the  things  which  are  formed  by  nature,  help  to  adorn 
them,  and  they  please  the  mir.d;  so  that  if  a  man  should 
have  a  feeling  and  deeper  insight  about  the  things  found  in 
the  un'veise  there  is  hardly  6'//6'  of  those  which  follow  by  %uay 
of  conseque?u'e  which  wiil  not  seem  to  him  to  be  in  a  manner 
disposed  so  as  to  give  pleasure."  (iv.  2.) 

This  congruity  to  nature — the  following  of  nature,  and 
obedie.^xe  to  all  her  laws — is  the  key-formula  to  the  doc- 
trines of  the  Roman  Stoics. 

"  Everything  which  is  in  any  way  beautiful  is  beautiful  in 
itself,  and  terminates  in   itself,  not   having   praise  as  part  of 


II IS  ^'MEDITATTOXS:' 


279 


itself.  Neither  worse,  then,  nor  better  is  a  thing  made  by 
being  praised  ....  A  such  a  thing  as  an  emerald  made 
wone  than  it  was,  if  it  is  not  praised?  or  gold,  ivory,  pur- 
ple, a  lyre,  a  little  knife,  a  flower,  a  shrub  T  (iv.  20.) 

''Ever\  thing  harmonizes  with  me  which  is  harmonious  to 
thee  O  Un'\erse.  Nothing  for  me  is  too  early  nor  too  late, 
which  is  in  due  time  for  thee.  Everything  is  fruit  to  me 
which  thy  seasons  bring,  O  Nature  !  from  thee  are  all  things, 
in  thee  are  all  things,  to  thee  all  things  return.  The  poet 
says,  Dear  city  of  Cecrops;  and  wilt  not  thou  say.  Dear 
city  of  Godr   (iv.    23.) 

"  Willingly  give  thyself  up  to  fate,  allowing  her  to  spm 
thy  thread  into  whatever  thing  she  pleases."  (iv.  34.) 

And  here,  in  a  very  small  matter— getting  out  of  bed  in 
a  morning— is  one  practical  application  of  the  formula  :— 

"  In  the  morning  when    thou  risest  unwillingly,  let  these 
thoughts  be  present—'  1  am  rising  to  the  work  of  a  human 
being.      Why,  then,  am  I  dissatisfied  if  T  am  going  to  do  the 
things  for  which  I  exist,  and  for  7ohich   I  was  brought  into 
the  world?     Or  have  I  been  made  for  this,  to  lie  in  the  bed- 
clothes and  keep  myself  warm  ?"      '  But  this  is  more   i)leas- 
ant.'     Dost  thou  exist,  then,  to  take  thy  pleasure,  and  not  for 
action  or  exertion  I     Dost  thou  not  see  the  little  plants,  the 
little    birds,   the   ants,   the  spiders,    the   bees,  workmg   to- 
gether to  put  in   order  their  several  parts  of  the  universe  ? 
And  art  thou  unwilling  to  do  the  work  of  a  human  bemg, 
and  dost  thou  not  make  haste  to  do   that  which  is  accord- 
ing to  thy  nature?"  (v.  i.)  ["  Go  to  the  ant,  thou  sluggard; 
consider  her  ways,  and  be  wise!"] 

The  same  principle,  that  Nature  has  assigned  to  us  our 
proper  place- that  a  task  has  been  given  us  to  perform, 
and  that  our  only  care  should  be  to  perform  it  aright,  for 


28o 


MARCUS  A  URELIUS. 


the  blessing  of  the  great  Whole  of  which  we  are  but  insig- 
nificant parts — dom-iiates  through  the  admirable  precepts 
which  the  Emperor  lays  down  for  tlie  regulation  of  our  con- 
duct towards  others.  Some  men,  lie  says,  do  benefits  to 
others  only  because  they  expect  a  return  ;  some  men  even, 
if  they  do  not  demand  any  return,  are  woi  forgetful  that  they 
have  rendered  a  benefit ;  but  others  do  not  even  know 
what  they  have  done,  but  are  like  a  vvie  luhieh  has  pro- 
duced grapes,  and  seeks  for  7wthiug  more  after  it  has  pro- 
duced its  proper  fruit.  So  we  ought  to  do  good  to  others 
as  simple  and  as  naturally  as  a  horse  runs,  or  a  bee  makes 
honey,  or  a  vine  bears  grapes  season  after  season,  without 
thinking  of  the  grapes  which  it  has  borne.  And  in  anotlier 
passage,  ''  What  more  dost  thou  want  when  thou  hast  done 
a  service  to  anotlier  ?  Art  thou  not  content  to  have  done 
an  act  conformable  to  tliy  nature,  and  must  thou  seek  to  be 
paid  for  it,  just  as  if  the  eye  demanded  a  reward  for  seeing, 
or  tlie  feet  for  walkinir  ?" 

''  Judge  every  word  and  deed  wliich  is  according  to 
nature  to  be  fit  for  thee,  and  be  not  diverted  by  tlie  blame 
which  follows  ....  but  if  a  thing  is  good  to  be  done  or 
said,  do  not  consider  it  unworthy  of  thee."  (v.  3.) 

Sometimes,  indeed,  ^Marcus  Aurelius  wavers.  The  evils 
of  life  overpower  him.  ''  Such  as  bathing  appears  to  thee," 
he  says,  ''oil,  STOcat,  dirt,  Jilthy  7aater,  all thiugs  disgusting 
' — ^"6^  is  every  part  of  life  and  ere ry thing''  (viii.  24)  ;  and 
again: — ''Of  human  life  the  time  is  a  point,  and  the  sub- 
stance is  in  a  flux,  and  the  perception  dull,  and  the  com- 
position of  tl:e  whole  body  subject  to  putrefaction,  and  tlie 
sold  a  whirl,  and  fortune  hard  to  divine,  and  fame  a  thincr 
devoid  of  judgment."  But  mo:e  often  he  retains  his  per- 
fect tranquillity,  and   says,   ''Either  thou  livest   here,  and 


/IIS   ''MEDITATIOXS:' 


2S1 


hast  already  accustomed  thyself  to  it,  or  thou  art  going 
away,  and  this  w^as  thine  own  will ;  or  thou  art  dying,  and 
hast  discharged  thy  duty.  But  besides  these  things  there  is 
nothing.  Be  of  good  cheer,  then.''  (x.  22.)  "  Take  me,  and 
cast  me  where  thou  wilt,  for  then  I  shall  keep  my  divine 
part  tranquil,  that  is,  content,  if  it  can  feel  and  act  conform- 
ably to  its  proper  constitution."  (viii.  45.) 

There  is  something  delightful  in  the  fact  that  even  in  the 
Stoic  pliilosophy  there  was  some  comfort  to  keep  men  from 
despair.     To  a  holy  and  scrupulous  conscience  like  that  of 
IVIarcus,  there  would  have  been  an  inestimable  preciousness 
in  the  Christian  doctrine  of  the  "  forgiveness  of  the  sins."  Of 
that    divine    mercy — of    that    sin-uncreating     power — the 
ancient  world  knew  nothing  ;  but  in  Marcus  w^e  find   some 
dim  and  faint  adumbration   of  the   doctrine,  expressed  in  a 
manner  which  might  at  least  breathe  calm  into  the  spirit  of 
the  philosopher,  though  it  could  never  reach  the  hearts  of 
the    suffering  multitude.      For   "suppose,"   he    says,  "that 
thou  hast  detached  thyself  from  the  natural  unity, — for  thou 
wast  made  by  nature  a  part,  but  now  hast  cut  thyself  off — 
yet  here  is  the  lieautiful provision  that  it  is  in  tJiy p07uer  agaift 
to  unite  thyself     God   has   allowed  this   to  no  other  part — • 
after  it  has  been  separated    and    cut  asunder,  to   come  to- 
gether again.     But  consider  the  goodness  7uith  ndiich  He  has 
privileged  man  ;  for  lie  has  put  it  in  hisp07uer,  when  he  has 
been  separated,  to  return  a/ul  to  be  reunited,  and  to  restinie 
his  place!'     And  elsewhere   he  says,  "  If  you  cannot  main- 
tain a  true  and   magnanimous  character,  go   courageously 
into  some  corner  where  you  can  maintain  them  ;  or  if  even 
{here  you  fail,  depart  at  once   from  life,  not   with  passion, 
but  with  modest  and  simple  freedom— which  will  be  to  have 
done  at  least  ofie  laudable  act,"     Sad  that  even  to  Marcus 


282 


MARCUS  AURELIUS. 


HIS  ''MEDITATIONS.'' 


283 


Aurelius  death  should  liave  seemed  the  only  refuge  from  the 
despair  of  ultimate  failure  in   the  struggle    to  be   wise  and 


good! 


jMarcus  valued  temperance  and  self-denial  as  being  the 
best  means  of  keeping  his  heart  strong  and  pure ;  but  we 
are  glad  to  learn  he  did  ?iot  value  the  rigours  of  asceticism. 
Life  brought  with  it  enough,  and  more  than  enough,  of  an- 
tagonism to  brace  his  nerves;  enough,  and  more  than 
enough,  of  the  rough  wind  of  adxersity  in  his  face  to  make 
it  unnecessary  to  add  more  by  his  own  actions.  ''It  is  not 
fit,"  he  says,  "that  I  should  give  myself  pain,  for  I  have 
never  intentionally  given  pain  even  to  another."  (viii.  42.) 

It  was  a  commonplace  of  ancient  philosophy  that  the  life 
of  the  wise  man  should  be  a  contemplation  of,  ainl  a  pre- 
paration for,  death.  It  certainly  was  so  with  Marcus  Aure- 
lius. /  The  thoughts  of  the  nothingness  of  man,  and  of  that 
great  sea  of  oblivion  which  shall  hereafter  swallow  up  all 
that  he  is  and  does,  are  ever  present  to  his  mind ;  they  are 
thoughts  to  which  he  recurs  more  constantly  than  any  other, 
and  from  whicli  he  alwa}'s  draws  the  same  moral  lesson. 

'^  Since  it  is  possible  tliat  thou  mayest  depart  from  life  this 
very  moment,  regulate  every  act  and  thought  accordingly. 
.  .  .  Death  certainly,  and  life,  honour  and  dishonour,  pain 
and  pleasure,  all  these  things  happen  equally  to  good  men 
and  bad,  being  things  which  make  us  neither  better  nor 
worse.     Therefore  they  are  neither  good  nor  evil."  (ii.  1 1.) 

Elsewhere  he  says  that  Hippocrates  cured  diseases  and 
died  ;  and  the  Chaldaeans  foretold  the  future  and  died  ;  and 
Alexander,  and  Pompey,  and  Ccesar  killed  thousands,  and 
then  died ;  and  lice  destroyed  Democritus,  and  other  lice 
killed  Socrates ;  and  Augustus,  and  his  wife,  and  daughter, 
and  all  his  descendants,  and  all  his  ancestors,  are  dead  ;  and 


i 


Vespasian  and  all  his  Court,  and  all  who  in  his  day  feasted, 
and  married,  and  were  sick  and  chaffered,  and  fought,  and 
flattered,  and  plotted,  and  grumbled,  and  wished  other 
people  to  die,  and  pined  to  become  kings  or  consuls,  are 
dead;  and  all  the  idle  people  who  are  doing  the  same  things 
now  are  doomed  to  die;  and  all  human  things  are  smoke, 
and  nothing  at  all ;  and  it  is  not  for  us,  but  for  the  gods,  to 
settle  whether  we  play  the  play  out,  or  only  a  part  of  it. 
''There  are  via Jiy  grains  of  fraukiucejise  on  the  same  altar; 
one  falls  before,  another  falls  after;  but  it  makes  no  differefieel' 
And  the  moral  of  all  these  thoughts  is,  "  Death  hangs 
over  thee  while  thou  livest :  while  it  is  in  thy  power  be 
good."  (iv.  17.)  ''Thou  hast  embarked,  thou  hast  made 
the  voyage,  thou  hast  come  to  shore  ;  get  out.  If,  indeed, 
to  another  life  there  is  no  want  of  gods,  not  even  there. 
But  if  to  a  state  without  sensation,  thou  wilt  cease  to  be 
held  by  pains  and  pleasures."  (iii.  3.) 

Nor  was  Marcus  at  all  comforted  under  present  annoy- 
ances by  the  tliought  of  posthumous  fame.  "  How  ephem- 
eral and  worthless  human  things  are,"  he  says,  "•  and  what 
was  yesterday  a  little  mucus,  to-morrow  will  be  a  mummy 
or  ashes."  "  ]\Iany  who  are  now  praising  thee,  will  very 
soon  blame  thee,  and  neither  a  posthumous  name  is  of  any 
value,  nor  reputation,  nor  anything  else."  What  has  be- 
come of  all  great  and  famous  men,  and  all  they  desired, 
and  all  they  loved?  They  are  "  smoke,  and  ash,  and  a  tale, 
or  not  even  a  tale."  After  all  their  ra^es  and  envyings, 
men  are  stretched  out  quiet  and  dead  at  last.  Soon  thou 
wilt  have  forgotten  all,  and  soon  all  will  have  forgotten  thee. 
But  here,  again,  after  such  thoughts,  the  same  moral  is  al- 
ways introduced  again  :— "  I'ass  then  through  the  little  space 
of  time  conformably  to  nature,  and  end  the  journey  in  con- 


284 


MARCUS  AURELIUS, 


HIS  '^meditations:' 


2S5 


\.QYi\,just  as  an  olive  falls  ofwhe?i  His  ripe,  blessing  nature 
who  prodneed  it,  and  thankifig  the  tree  on  7uhich  it  grew^ 
''  One  thing  only  troubles  me,  lest  I  should  do  something 
which  the  constitution  of  man  does  not  allow,  or  in  the  way 
which  it  does  not  allow,  or  what  it  does  not  allow  now." 

To  quote  the  thoughts  of  Marcus  Aurelius  is  to  me  a  fas- 
cinating task.  But  I  have  already  let  him  speak  so  largely 
for  himself  that  by  this  time  the  reader  will  have  some  con- 
ception of  his  leading  motives.  It  only  remains  to  adduce 
a  few  more  of  the  weighty  and  golden  sentences  in  which 
he  lays  down  his  rule  of  life. 

*'  To  say  all  in  a  word,  everything  which  belongs  to  the 
body  is  a  stream,  and  what  belongs  to  the  soul  is  a  dream 
and  vapour;  and  life  is  a  warfare,  and  a  stranger's  sojourn, 
and  after  fame  is  oblivion.  What,  then,  is  that  which  is 
able  to  enrich  a  man  }  One  thing,  and  only  one— philoso- 
phy. But  this  consists  in  keeping  the  guardian  spirit  within 
a  man  free  from  violence  and  unharmed,  superior  to  pains 
and  pleasures,  doing  nofhi?ig  ivithout  a  purpose,  nor  yet 
falsely,  and  with  hypocrisy  ....  accepting  all  that 
happeris  ajul  all  that  is  allotted  ....  and  finally 
waiting  for  death  with  a  cheerful  7?iindr  (ii.  17.) 

"  If  thou  findest  in  human  life  anything  better  than  jus- 
tice, truth,  temperance,  fortitude,  and,  in  a  word,  than  thme 
own  soul's  satisfaction  in  the  things  which  it  enables  thee  to 
do  according  to  right  reason,  and  in  the  condition  that  is 
assigned  to  thee  without  thy  own  choice ;  if,  I  say,  thou 
seest  anything  betten  than  this,  turn  to  it  with  all  thy  soul 
and  enjoy  that  which  thou  hast  found  to  be  the  best.  But 
....  if  thou  findest  everything  else  smaller  and  of  less 
value  than  this,  give  place  to  nothing  else  ....  Simply 
and  freely  choose  the  better,  and  hold  to  it."  (iii.  6.) 


f« 


"  Body,  soul,  intelligence  :  to  the  body  belong  sensations, 
to  the  soul  appetites,  to  the  intelligence  principles."  To  be 
impressed  by  the  senses  is  peculiar  to  animals ;  to  be  pulled 
by  the  strings  of  desire  belongs  to  effeminate  men,  and  to 
men  like  Phalaris  or  Nero ;  to  be  guided  only  by  intelli- 
gence belongs  to  atheists  and  traitors,  and  "men  who  do 
their  impure  deeds  when  they  have  shut  the  doors.  .  .  . 
There  remains  that  which  is  peculiar  to  the  good  man,  to  be 
pleased  and  content  with  what  happens,  and  with  the  thread 
which  is  spun  for  him;  and  not  to  defile  the  divinity  which 
is  planted  in  his  breast,  nor  disturb  it  by  a  crowd  of  images; 
but  to  preserve  it  tranquil,  following  it  obediently  as  a  god, 
neither  saying  anything  contrary  to  truth,  nor  doing  any- 
thing contrary  to  justice,  (iii.  16.) 

*'  Men  seek  retreats  for  themselves,  houses  in  the  coun- 
try, sea-shores,  and  mountains,  and  thou  too  art  wont  to  de- 
sire such  things  very  much.  But  this  is  altogether  a  mark 
of  the  commonest  sort  of  men,  for  it  is  in  thy  power  when- 
ever thou  shalt  chose  to  retire  into  thyself.  For  nowhere 
either  7vith  more  quiet  or  luith  more  freedom  does  a  man 
retire  than  into  his  oivn  soul,  particularly  when  he  has 
within  him  such  thoughts  that  by  looking  into  them  he 
is  immediately  in  perfect  tranquillity, — which  is  nothing  else 
than  the  good  ordering  of  the  mind."  (iv.  3.) 

"  Unhappy  am  I,  because  this  has  happened  to  me?  Not 
so,  but  happy  am  I  though  this  has  happened  to  me,  be- 
cause I  continue  free  from  pain  ;  neither  crushed  by  the 
present,  nor  fearing  the  future."     (iv.  19.) 

It  is  just  possible  that  in  some  of  these  passages  some 
readers  may  detect  a  trace  of  painful  self-consciousness,  and 
imagine  that  they  detect  a  little  grain  of  self-complacence. 
Something  of  self-consciousness  is  perhaps  inevitable  in  the 


286 


MARCUS  ArREIJUS. 


HIS   ''MEDITATIONS:' 


287 


diary  and  examination  of  his  own  conscience  by  one  who 
sat  on  such  a  lonely  height ;  but  self-complacency  there  is 
none.  Nay,  there  is  sometimes  even  a  cruel  sternness  in 
the  way  in  which  tlie  Emperor  speaks  of  his  own  self.  He 
certainly  dealt  not  with  himself  in  the  manner  of  a  dissem- 
bler with  God.  '*  When,"  he  says  (x.  8),  "  thou  hast  as- 
sumed the  names  of  a  man  wlio  is  good,  modest,  rational, 
magnanimous,  cling  to  those  names;  and   if  thou  shouldst 

lose  them,  (luickly  return  to  them For  to  cont'uiue  to 

be  such  as  thou  hast  hitherto  been,  and  to  be  torn  in  pieces, 
and  defiled  in  such  a  life,  is  the  character  of  a  very  stupid 
man,  and  one  over -fond  of  his  life,  and  like  those  half- 
devoured  fighters  with  wild  beasts,  7oho,  though  covered  7uith 
wounds  and  gore,  still  e/i treat  to  be  kept  till  the  following 
day^  though  they  unll  be  exposed  in  the  same  state  to  the 
same  claius  and  bites.  Therefore  fix  thyself  in  the  posses- 
sion of  these  few  names:  and  if  thou  art  able  to  abide 
in  them,  abide  as  if  thou  were  removed  to  the  Islands 
of  the  Blest."  Alas!  to  Aurelius,  in  this  life,  the  Islands  of 
the  Blest  were  very  far  away.  Heathen  philosophy  was  ex- 
alted and  eloquent,  but  all  its  votaries  were  sad ;  to  "  the 
peace  of  God,  which  passeth  all  understanding,"  it  was  not 
given  them  to  attain.  We  see  Marcus  ''wise,  self-governed, 
tender,  thankful,  blameless,"  says  Mr.  Arnold,  *' yet  with  all 
this  agitated,  stretching  out  his  arms  for  something  beyond 
— teudentonque  manue  ripcc  ulterior  is  ajnoreT 

I  will  quote  in  conclusion  but  three  short  precepts  : — 
"  Be  cheerful,  and  seek  not  external  help,  nor  the  tran- 
quillity which  others  give.     A  ma?i  must  stand  erect^  7iot  be 
kept  erect  by  others T  (iv.  5.) 

"''Be  like  the  promontory  against  which  the  loaves  contin- 


*i 


ually  break,  but  it  stands  firm  and  tames    the  fury  of  the 
water  arou7id  itl'  (iv.  49.) 

This  comparison  has  been  used  many  a  time  since  the 
days  of  IMarcus  Aurelius.  The  reader  will  at  once  recall 
Goldsmith's  famous  lines: — 

''  As  some  tall  cliff  that  rears  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head." 

"•  Short  is  the  little  that  remains  to  thee  of  life.  Live  as 
on  a  mountain.  For  it  makes  no  difference  whether  a  man 
lives  there  or  here,  if  he  lives  everywhere  in  the  world  as  in 
a  civil  community.  Let  men  see,  let  them  know  a  real  man 
who  lives  as  he  was  meant  to  live.  If  they  cannot  endure 
him,  let  them  kill  him.     For  that  is  better  than  to  live  as 

men  do."     (x.  15.) 

Such  were  some  of  the  thoughts  which  Marcus  Aurehus 
wrote  in  his  diary  after  days  of  battle  with  the  Quadi,  and 
the  Marcomanni,  and  the  Sarmata^.  Isolated  from  others 
no  less  by  moral  grandeur  than  by  the  supremacy  of  his 
sovereign  rank,  he  sought  the  society  of  his  own  noble  soul. 
I  sometimes  imagine  that  1  see  him  seated  on  the  borders 
of  some  gloomy  Pa anonian  forest  or  Hungarian  marsh; 
through  the  darkness  the  watchfires  of  the  enemy  gleam  in 
tlie  distance;  but  both  among  them,  and  in  the  camp 
around  him,  every  sound  is  hushed,  except  the  tread  of  the 
sentinel  outside  the  imperial  tent ;  and  in  that  tent  long 
after  midnight  sits  the  patient  Emperor  by  the  light  of  his 
solitary  lamp,  and  ever  and  anon,  amid  his  lonely  musings, 
he  pauses  to  write  down  the  pure  and  holy  thoughts  which 
shall  better  enable  him,  even  in  a  Roman  palace,  even  on 
barbarian  battlefields,  daily  to  tolerate  the   meanness  and 


^91 


2S8 


MARCUS  AURELIUS. 


the  malignity  of  the  men  around  him;  daily  to  amend  his 
own  shortcomings,  and,  as  the  sun  of  earthly  life  begins  to 
set,  da'ly  to  draw  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  Eternal  Light. 
And  when  I  thus  think  of  him,  I  know  not  whether  the 
who'e  of  heathen  antiquity,  out  of  its  gallery  of  stately  and 
royal  fi^^ures,  can  furnish  a  nobler,  or  purer,  or  more  lovable 
picture  than  that  of  this  crowned  philosopher  and  laurelled 
hero,  who  was  yet  one  of  the  humblest  and  one  of  the  \\\o< 
enlightened  of  all  ancient  "  Seekers  after  God." 


CONCLUSION. 


A  SCEPTICAL  writer  has    observed,   with  something  like    a 
sneer,  that  the  noblest  utterances  of  Gospel  morality  may 
be  paralleled  from  the  writings  of  heathen  philosophers. 
The  sneer  is  pointless,  and  Christian  moralists  have  sponta- 
neously drawn  attention  to  the  fact     In  this  volume,  so  far 
from  trying   to  conceal  that  it   is  so,  I   have  taken  pleasure 
m  placing  side  by  side  the  words  of  Apostles  and  of  Phi- 
losophers.    The  divine  origin  of  Christianity  does  not  rest 
on  its  morality  alone.     By  the  aid  of  the  light  which  was 
within   them,  by  deciphering  the  law  written  on  their  own 
consciences,  however  much  its  letters  may  have  been  oblit- 
erated or  dimmed,  Plato,  and  Cicero,  and  Seneca,  and  Ep- 
ictetus,  and  Aurelius  were  enabled  to  grasp  and  to  enunci- 
ate a  multitude  of  great  and  memorable  truths ;  yet  they 
themselves  would  have  been  the  first  to  admit  the  wavering 
uncertainty  of  their  hopes  and  speculations,  and  the  abso- 
lute necessity  of  a  further  illumination.     So  strong  did  that 
necessity  appear  to  some  of  the  wisest  among  them,  that 
Socrates  ventures  in  express  words  to  prophesy  the  future 
advent  of  some  heaven-sent  Guide.*     Those  who  imagine 

*Xen.  Mem.  i,  iv.  14;  Plato,  Alcib.  ii. 


290 


COXCLUSION. 


that  without  a  written  revelatiou  it  would  have  been  possi- 
ble to  learn  all  that  is  necessary  for  man's  well-being,  are 
speaking  in  direct  contradiction  of   the  greatest  heathen 
teachers,  in  contradiction   even  of  those  very  teachers  to 
whose  writing  they  point  as  the  proof  of  their   assertion. 
Augustine  was  expressing  a  very  deep  conviction  when  he 
said  that  in   Plato  and  in  Cicero  he  met  with  many  utter- 
ances which  were  beautiful  and  wise,  but  among  them  all 
he  never  found,  "  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labour  and  are 
heavy  laden,  and  I  will  refresh  you."     Glorious  as  was  the 
wisdom  of  ancient  thought,  its  knowledge  respecting  the 
indwelling  of  the  Spirit,  the  resurrection  of  the  body,  and 
the  forgiveness  of  sins,  was  but  fragmentary  and  vague. 
Bishop  Butler  has  justly  remarked  that  "The  great  doc- 
trines of  a  future  state,  the  dangers  of  a  course  of  wicked- 
ness, and  the  efficacy  of  repentance  are  not  only  confirmed 
in  the  Gospel,  but  are  taught,  especially  the  last  is,  with  a 
degree  of  light  to  which  that  of  nature  is  darkness." 

The  morality  of  Paganism  was,  on   its  own  confession, 
iusufficient     It  was  tentative,  where  Christianity  is  authori- 
tative :  it  was  dim  and  partial,  where  Christianity  is  bright 
and  complete ;  it  was  inadecpiate  to  rouse  the  sluggish  care- 
lessness of  mankind,  where  Christianity  came  in  wUh  an 
imperial  and  awakening  power ;  it  gives  only  a  rule,  where 
Christianity  supplies  a  principle.     And  even  where  its  teach- 
ings were  absolutely  coincident  with  those  of  Scripture,  it 
faried  to  ratify  them  with  a  sufficient  sanction ;  it  failed  to 
announce  them  with    the  same   powerful  and  contagious 
ardour;  it  failed  to  furnish  an  absolutely  faultless  and  vivid 
example  of  their  i>ractice ;  it  failed  to  inspire  them  with  an 
irresistible  motive ;  it  failed  to  support  them  with  a  power- 


CONCL  USIOX. 


291 


fill  comfort  under  the   difficulties  which   were  sure   to  be 
encountered  in  the  aim  after  a  consistent  and  holy  life. 

The  attempts  of  the  Christian  Fathers  to  show  that  the 
truths  of  ancient  i:>hilosophy  were  borrowed  from  Scripture 
are  due  in  some  cases  to  ignorance  and  in  some  to  a  want 
of  perfect  honesty  in  controversial  dealing.     That  Gideon 
(Jerubbaal)  is  identical  with  the  priest  Hierombalos  who 
supplied    information    to    Sanchoniathon,    the    Berytian- 
that  Thales  pieced  together  a  philosophy  from  fragments 
of  Jewish  truth  learned  in  Phrenicia;  that  Pythagoras  and 
Democritus  availed  themselves  of  Hebraic  traditions,  col- 
lected during  their  travels;  that  Plato  is  a  mere  "Attic'ising 
Moses;"  that  Aristotle  picked  up  his  ethical  system  from  a 
Jew  whom  he  met  in  Asia ;  that  Seneca  corresponded  with 
St.  Paul:  are  assertions  every  bit  as  unhistorical  and  false  as 
that  Homer  was  thinking  of  Genesis  when  he  described  the 
shield  of  Achilles,  or  (as  Clemens  of  Alexandria  gravely 
informs  us)  that  Miltiades  won  the  battle  of  Marathon  by 
copying  the  strategy  of  the  battle  of  Beth-Horon!     To  say 
that  Pagan  morality  "kindled  its  faded  taper  at  the  Gospel 
light,  whether  furtively  or  unconsciously  taken,"  and  that  it 
"dissembled  the  obligation,  and  made  a  boast  of  the  splen- 
dour as  though  it  were  originally  her  own,  or  were  sufficient 
in  her  hands  for  the  moral  illumination  of  the  world;"  is  to 
make  an  assertion  wholly  untenable.*     Seneca,  Epictetus, 
Aurelius,  are  among  the  truest  and  loftiest  of  Pagan  moralists' 
yet  Seneca  ignored  the  Christians,  Epictetus  despised,  and 
Aurelius  persecuted  them.     AH  three,  so  far  as  they  knew 

*  See  for  various  statements  in  this  passage,  Josephus,  c.  Apio,,.  ii. 
§36;  Cic.  DeFin.  v.  25;  Ciem.  Alex.  Strom,  i,  xxii.  150,  xxv.  v.  14; 
huseb.;  Pr^ef.  Eva„g.  x.  4,  ix.  5,  &c. ;  Lactant.  Inst.  Dh:  iv.  2,  &c 

9 


CONCLUSIOJ^. 
292 

.V,    „  K^  c:ome'hin'r  very  touching,  there  is  also  buu  =, 

there  be  ^'-^™^:'"'''=        [    ^^,heirGoclaswellasouvs-the.r 
very  encouraging.     Cod  ^vas  thei  ^^^  ^^.^_ 

Creator,  their  Preserver,  ^^^^^^^^^^Z,^  .f.^r  Him,  suf- 
ness  among  them  ;  who,  as  they  bi ma  y 
fered  their  g:oping  —s  to^^P  the  ^^^^^  ^.^^ 
who  sent  them  ram  f--  -J-^^f  7,^,  ^is  Spirit  was 
,Heir  hearts  with  Y^ ^^^^  ^^...^n  and  unknown, 
with  them,  dweUingm  them   t^.oub  j^^arts,  send- 

nurifvini?  and  sanctifying   the  temple  oi    i  . 

LIgieams    of  illuminating  ^^^^^^^Z^ 

ties,  making  -^^'^^^^^^^  ^^  ,^,  ,,,,  sCv>our  was  //.«r 

not  be  -"-^d„/;^^jXj  regard;d  as  a  crucified  male- 
aXTafthei:'  tnHnvisiL  \mg  .  through  His  ri,^ 
loulss   their   poor  merits  were  accepted;   their   inward 
'  cCesses  were  healed;  He  whose  worship  they  denounced 
r  'execrable  superstition"  stood  supphcatmg  for  them 
:     he    i7  tnd  of  the  Majesty  on  high  helping   them 
lol     hey  knew   Him  not)  to  crush  al    that  was  evi 
1     \ZJ  and  pleading  for  them  when  they  persecuted 
within  them,  ana  picdun  g  aTr-,tl-,pr    fordve 

even   the    most   beloved    of   His  saints.      Father,   torgive 

them  •  for  they  know  not  what  they  do." 

Yes  ley  too  were  all  His  offspring.     Even  if  they  had 
J"'e  n,'should   we  grudge  that  some   of  the   chi  dren 
Teat  should  be  given  unto  dogs?     Shall  we  deny  to  these 
Cconlus  prophecies  of  heathendom"   their  oracular 


CONCLUSION, 


^93 


/  a 


i 


% 


significance  ?     Shall  we  be  jealous  of  the  ethical  loftiness 
of  a  Plato  or  an  Aurelius  ?     Shall  we  be  loth  to  admit  that 
some  power  of  the  Spirit  of  Christ,  even    mid   the    dark 
wanderings  of  Seneca's  life,  kept  him  still  conscious  of  a 
nobler  and  a  better  way,  or  that  some  sweetness  of  a  divine 
hope  inspired  the  depressions  of  P:pictetus  in  his  slavery? 
Shall  our  eye  be  evil  because  God  in  His  goodness  granted 
the  heathen  also  to  know  such  truths  as  enabled  them  '^to 
overcome  the  allurements  of  the  visible  and  the  terrors   of 
the  invisible   world?''  Yes,  if  we   have   of  the   Christian 
Chuch   so  mean  a  conception   that  we   look    upon  it  as  a 
mere  human  society,  ^'set  up  in  the  world  to  defend  a  cer- 
tain religion  against  a  certain   other  religion."     But  if  on 
the  other  hand  we  believe  '^that  it  was  a  society  established 
by  God  as  a  witness  for  the  true  condition  of  all  human 
beings,  we  shall  rejoice  to  acknowledge  its   members  to  be 
what  they  believed  themselves  to  be,— confessors  and  mar- 
tyrs for  a  truth  which  they  could  not  fully  embrace  or  com- 
prehend, but  which,  through  their  lives  and  deaths,  through 
the  right  and  wrong  acts,  the  true  and  false  words,  of  those 
who  understand  them    least,  was   to   manifest   and   prove 
Itself     Those  who  hold  this  conviction  dare  not  conceal, 
or  misrepresent,  or  undervalue,  any  one  of  those  weighty 
and    memorable    sentences    which    are  to  be  found  in  the 
Meditation  of  Marcus  Aurelius.     If  they  did,  they  would  be 
underrati?ig  a  portion  of  that  very  truth  7vhich  the  preachers 
of  the  Gospel  were  appoi?ited  to  set  forth  ;  they  would  be 
adopting  the   error  of  the  philosophical   Emperor  without 
his  excuse  for  it.     Nor  dare  they  pretend  that  the  Christian 
teaching  had  unconsciously  imparted  to  him  a  portion  of  its 
own  light  while  he  seemed  to  exclude  it.      They  will  believe 
that  it  was  God's  good  pleasure  that  a  certain  truth  should 


f- 


394 


CONCL  US  ION. 


be  seized  and  apprehended  by  this  age,  and  they  will  see 
indications  of  what  that  truth  was  in  the  efforts  of  Plutarch 
to  understand  the  '  Daemon '  which  guided  Socrates,  in  the 
courageous  language  of  Ignatius,  in  the  bewildering  dreams 
of  the  Gnostics,  in  the  eagerness  of  Justin  Martyr  to  prove 
Christianity  a  philosophy  ...  in  the  apprehension  of  Chris- 
tian principles  by  Marcus  Aurelius,  and  in  his  hatred  of  the 
Christians.  From  every  side  they  will  derive  evidence,  that 
a  doctrine  and  society  7vhich  were  meant  for  mankind  can- 
not depend  upon  the  partial  views  and  apprehensions  of  men, 
must  go  on  justifying,  reconciling,  confutifig,  those  views  and 
apprehensions  by  the  demonstration  of  facts."  * 

But   perphaps   some   reader  will   say.  What    advantage, 
then,  can  we  gain  by  studying  in  Pagan  writers  truths  which 
are  expressed  more  nobly,  more  clearly,  and  infinitely  more 
effectually  in   our  own  sacred   books?     Before  answering 
the  question,  let  me  mention  the  traditional  anecdote  t  of 
the    Caliph   Omar.     When    he    conquered    Alexandria,  he 
was  shown  its  magnificient  library,  in  which  were  collected 
untold  treasures  of  literature,  gathered  together  by  the  zeal, 
the  labour,  and  the  liberaUty  of  a  dynasty  of  kings.     ''  What 
is  the  good  of  all  those  books  ?  "  he  said.     '^  They  are  either 
in  accordance  with  the  Koran,   or   contrary  to  it.      If  the 
former  they  are  superfluous ;  if  the  latter  they   are  perm- 
cious.     In  either  case  let  them   be  burnt."     Burnt   they 
were,  as  legend  tells  ;  but   all  the   world  has  condemned 
the  Caliph's  reasoning  as  a  piece  of  stupid  Philistinism  and 
barbarous   bigotry.     Perhaps    the   question    as    to  the  use 

*  Maurice,  Philos.  of  ike  First  Six  Centuries,  p.  37-  We  venture 
specially  to  recommend  this  weighty  and  beautiful  passage  to  the  read- 
er's serious  attention. 

+  Now  known  to  be  unhistorical. 


'  "t 


CONCLUSION. 


29s 


of  reading  Pagan  ethics  is  equally  unphilosophical ;  at  any 
rate,  we  can  si)are  but  very  few  words  to  its  consideration. 
The  answer  obviously  is,  that    God   has    spoken   to  men, 
7toXv^ep(2<;  7{ai   TtoXvrpoTtGo^,   "  2it   sundry    times     and    in 
divers     manners,"  *  with     a     richly     variegated    wisdom.f 
Sometimes  He  has  taught  truth  by  the  voice  of  Hebrew 
prophets,  sometimes  by  the  voice  of  Pagan  philosophers. 
And  a//  His  voices   demand  our  listening  ear.     If  it  was 
given  to  the  Jew  to  speak  with  diviner  insight  and  intenser 
power,  it  is  given  to  the  Gentile   also  to  speak  at  times 
with  a  large  and  lofty  utterance,  and   we  may  learn  truth 
from  men  of  alien  lips  and  another  tongue,      l^hey,  too,  had 
the  dream,  the  vision,  the  dark  saying  upon  the  harj),  the 
^'daughter  of  a  voice,"  the  mystic  flashes  upon  the  graven 
gems.     And  such  truths  come  to  us  with  a  singular  force 
and  freshness;  with  a  strange  beauty  as  the  doctrines  of  a 
less  brightly  illuminated  manhood ;  with  a  new  power  of 
conviction  from  their  originality  of  form,  which,  because  it 
is  less  familiar  to   us,  is  well  calculated  to  arrest  our  atten- 
tion after  is  has  been   paralysed   by   familiar   repetitions. 
We  cannot    aftbrd    to   lose    these   heathen   testimonies  to 
Christian  truth;  or  to  hush  the  glorious  utterances  of  Muse 
and    Sibyl   which    have   justly    outlived    ''the    drums    and 
tramplings    of  a   hundred     triumplis."       We    may    make 
them    infinitely    profitable    to    us.       If    St.    Paul    quotes 
Aratus,     and     Menander,     and    Epimenides,  %     and    per- 
haps  more    than   one   lyrical    melody  besides,    with    earn- 
est   appreciation, — if    the    inspired     Apostle    could     both 
learn  himself  and  teach  others  out  of  the  utterances  of  a 

*  Ileb.  i.  I. 

t  noXvTtoiKiXo'^   6o(p/a. 

t    See  Acts  xvii.  28  ;  i  Cor.  ;  Tit.  i.  12. 


296 


CONCL  USION, 


Cretan  philosopher  and  an  Attic  comedian, — we  may  be 
sure  that  many  of  Seneca's  apophthegams  would  have 
filled  him  with  pleasure,  and  that  he  would  have  been  able 
to  read  Epictetus  and  Aurelius  with  the  same  noble  admir- 
ation which  made  him  see  with  thankful  emotion  that  mem- 
orable altar  to  the  Unknown  God. 

Let  us  then  make  a  brief  and  final  sketch  of  the  three  great 
Stoics  whose  lives  we  have  been  contemplating,  with  a  view 
to  summing  up  their  specialties,  their  deficiencies,  and  the 
peculiar  relations  to,  or  divergences  from,  Christian  truth, 
which  their  writings  present  to  us. 

"-  Seneca  saepe  noster,"  "  Seneca,  often  our  own,"  is  the 
expression  of  TertuUian,  and  he  uses  it  as  an  excuse  for 
frequent  references  to  his  works.  Yet  if,  of  the  three, 
he  be  most  like  Christianity  in  particular  passages,  he  di- 
verges most  widely  from  it  in  his  general  spirit. 

He  diverges  from  Christianity  in  many  of  his  modes  of 
regarding  life,  and  in  many  of  his  most  important  beliefs. 
What,  for  instance,  is  his  main  conception  of  the  Deity? 
Seneca  is  generally  a  Pantheist.  No  doubt  he  speaks  of 
God's  love  and  goodness,  but  with  him  God  is  no  personal 
living  Father,  but  the  soul  of  the  universe — the  fiery,  prim- 
eval, eternal  principle  which  transfuses  an  inert,  and  no  less 
eternal,  matter,  and  of  which  our  souls  are,  as  it  were,  but 
divine  particles  or  passing  sparks.  ''God,"  he  says,  ''is 
Nature,  is  Fate,  is  Fortune,  is  the  Universe,  is  the  all- 
pervading  Mind.  He  cannot  change  the  substance  of 
the  universe,  He  is  himself  under  the  power  of  Destiny, 
which  is  uncontrollable  and  immutable.  It  is  not  God 
who  rolls  the  thunder,  it  is  Fate.  He  does  not  rejoice 
in  His  works,  but  is  identical  with  them."  In  fact,  Seneca 
would  have  heartily  adopted  the  words  of  Pope : 


CONCLUSIO.W  297 

''All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole, 
Whose  body  nature  is,  and  God  the  soul.'* 

Though    there   m^y    be  a  vague   sense   in  which    those 
words  may  be  admitted  and  explained  by  Christians,  yet, 
in  the   mind  of    Seneca,  they  led  to    conclusions  directly 
opposed  to  those  of  Christianity.     With  him,  for  instance, 
the  wise  man  is  the  equal  of  God ;  not  His  adorer,  not  His 
servant,  not  His  suppHant,  but  His  associate,  His  relation. 
He  differs  from  God  in  time  alone.     Hence  all  prayer  is 
needless  he   says,  and  the  forms   of  external  worship  are 
superfluous  and  puerile.     It  is  foohsh  to  beg  for  that  which 
you  can  impart  to  yourself.      "What  need  is  there  o{ vows? 
Make  7^///'j-^^  happy."     Nay,  in  the  intolerable  arrogance 
which   marked  the  worst   aberration  of  Stoicism,  the  wise 
man  is  under  certain  aspects  placed  even  higher  than  God 
—higher  tlian   God  Himself— because   God  is  beyond  the 
reach  of  misfortunes,  but  the  wise  man  is  superior  to  their 
anguish ;   and   because  God  is  good  of  necessity,  but  the 
wise  man  from  choice.      This  wretched  and   inflated  para- 
dox occurs  in   Seneca's   treatise  On  Providcfice,  and  in  the 
same  treatise  he  glorifies  suicide,  and  expresses  a  doubt  as 
to  the  immortality  of  the  soul. 

Agam,  the  two  principles  on  which  Seneca  relied  as 
the  basis  of  all  his  moral  system  are  :  first,  the  principle 
that  we  ought  to  follow  Nature ;  and,  secondly,  the  sup- 
posed perfectibility  of  the  ideal  man. 

I.  Now,  of  course,  if  we  explain  this  precept  of  "follow- 
ing Nature  "  as  Juvenal  has  explained  it,  and  say  that  the 
voice  of  Nature  is  always  coincident  with  the  voice  of  phil- 
osophy—if we  prove  that  our  real  nature  is  none  other  than 
the  dictate  of  our  highest  and  most  nobly  trained  reason, 
and  if  we  can  establish  the  fact  that  every  deed  of  cruelty 


29^ 


COXCL  USION. 


of  shame,  of  lust,  or   of  selfishness,  is  essentially  contrary 
to  our  nature— then  we   may  say  with  Bishop   Butler,  that 
the  precept  to  ''  follow  Nature  "  is  ''  a  manner  of  speakmg 
not  loose  and  undeterminate,  but  clear  and  distinct,  strictly 
just  and  true."     But  how  complete  must  be  the  system, 
how  long  the  preliminary  training,  which  alone   can  enable 
us  to  find  any  practical  value,  any  appreciable  aid  to   a 
virtuous    life,  in  a  dogma    such    as    this  1       And,    m    the 
hands  of  Seneca,  it  becomes  a  very  empty  formula.     He 
entirely  lacked  the  keen  insight  and  dialectic  subtlety  of 
such  a  writer   as  Bishop  Butler ;    and,  in  his  explanation 
of  this  Stoical  shibboleth,  any  real   meaning  which  it  may 
possess  is  evaporated  into  a  gorgeous  mist  of  confused  dec- 
lamation and  splendid  commonplace. 

2.  Nor  is  he  .much  more  fortunate  with  his  ideal  man. 
This  pompous  abstraction  presents  us  with  a  conception  at 
once  ambitious  and  sterile.     The  Stoic  wise  man  is  a  sort 
of  moral  Phcenix,  impossible  and  repulsive.      He  is  intrepid 
in  dangers,  free  from  all  passion,  happy  in  adversity,  calm 
in  the  storm ;    he  alone  knows  how  to  live,  because  he 
alone  knows  how  to  die ;    he  is  the  master  of  the  world, 
because  he  is  master  of  himself,  and  the  equal  of  God ;  he 
looks  down  upon  everything  with  sublime  imperturbability, 
despising   the    sadnesses    of    humanity    and    smiling  with 
irritating  loftiness  at  all  our  hopes  and  all  our  fears.     But, 
in  another  sketch  of  this  faultless  and  unpleasant  monster, 
Seneca  presents  us,  not  the  proud  athlete  who  challenges 
the  universe  and  is  invulnerable  to  all  the  stings  and  arrows 
of  passion  or  of  fate,  but  a  hero  in  the  serenity  of  absolute 
triumph,    more    tender,  indeed,   but   still   without    desires, 
without   passions,    without  needs,    who   can   fell   no  pity, 
because  pity  is  a  weakness  which  disturbs  his  sapient  calm ! 


CONCL  USION. 


299 


Well  might    the    eloquent    Bossuet    exclaim,  as    he  read  of 
these  chimerical  perfections,  "  It  is  to  take  a  tone  too  lofty 
for  feeble  and  mortal    men.     But,  O    maxims   truly   pom- 
pous !  O  affected  insensibility !  O  false  and  imaginary  wis- 
dom !  wliich   fancies    itself  strong    because    it   is  hard,  and 
generous  because  it  is  puffed  up  !     How  are  these  principles 
opposed  to  the  modest  simplicity  of  the   Saviour  of  souls, 
who,  in    our   Gospel    contemplating    His   faithful   ones  in 
affliction,  confesses  that  they  will  be  saddened  by  it !     'Ye 
shall  weep  and  iamcntr'     Shall    Christians    be  jealous  of 
such  wisdom  as  Stoicism  did  really  attain,  when  they  com- 
pare this  dry  and  bloodless  ideal  with  Him  who  wept  over 
Jerusalem  and  mourned  by  the  grave  of  Lazarus,  who  had 
a  mother  and  a  friend,  who  disdained  none,  who  pitied  all, 
who  humbled    Himself  to    death,  even   the    death    of  the 
cross,  whose  divine    excellence    we   cannot    indeed    attain 
because  He  is    God,  but    whose    example  we    can   imitate 
because  He  was  very  man  ?  * 

The    one   grand    aim    of    the    life    and    philosophy    of 
Seneca  was    Ease.      It  is  the  topic  which  constantly  recurs 
in  his  books  On  a  Happy  Life,   On    Tranquility  of  Mind, 
On   Anger,    and    On    the  Ease  and  On   the  Eirmness  of 
the    Sage.     It  is  the  pitiless  apathy,  the  stern  repression, 
of  every  form  of   emotion,    which    was    constantly   glori- 
fied as  the  aim  of  philosophy.     It  made    Stilpo  exclaim, 
when     he    had    lost    wife,    property,    and    children,    that 
he  had  lost   nothing,  because  he  carried  in  his  own  person 
everything   which   he  possessed.      It  led  Seneca   into  all 
that  is  most   unnatural,  all  that  is    most  fantastic,  and  all 
that  is  least  sincere  in  his  writings;  it  was  the  bitter  source 

♦  See  Martha,  Les   Moralistes,  p.  50  ;  Aubertin,  SSneque  et  St.  Paul 
p.  250. 


300 


CONCL  USJOX. 


^ 


CONCL  US  ION, 


301 


of  disgrace  and  failure  in   his  life.      It  comes   out  worst  of 
all  in  hs  book  On  Ajiger,     Aristotle  had  said  that  ''  Anger 
was  a  good  servant  but  a  bad  master  ;"     Plato  had  recog- 
nized the  immense  value   and  importance  of  the  irascible 
element  in  the  moral  constitution.     Even  Christian  writers, 
in  spite  of  Bishop  Butler,  have  often  lost  sight  of  this  truth, 
and  have  forgotten  that  to  a  noble  nature  ''  the   hate   of 
hate"  and   the  ^' scorn  of  scorn"   are  as  indispensable    as 
"  the  love  of  love."     But  Seneca  almost  gets  angry  himself 
at  the  very  notion  of  the  wise  man  being  angry  and  indig- 
nant even  against  moral  evil.     No,  he  must  not  get  angry, 
because  it  would  disturb  his   sublime  calm ;  and,  if  he   al- 
lowed himself  to  be  angry  at  wrong-doing,  he  would  have 
to  be  angry  all  day  long.     This  practical-Epicureanism,  this 
idle  acquiescence  in  the  supposed  incurability  of  evil,  pois- 
oned all  Seneca's  career.     ''  He  had  tutored  himself,"  says 
Professor  Maurice,  ''to  endure  personal  injuries  without  in- 
dulging an  anger ;  he  had  tutored  himself  to  look  upon  all 
moral  evil  without  anger.     If  the  doctrine  is  sound  and  the 
discipline  desirable,  we  must  be  content  to  take  the  whole 
result  of  them.     If  we  will  not  do  that,  we  must  resolve  to 
hate  oppression  and  wrong,  even  at  the  cost  of  philosophical 
composure:'     But  repose  is  not  to  be  our  aim: — 

"-  We  have  no  right  to  bliss, 
No  title  from  the  gods  to  welfare  and  repose." 

It  is  one  of  the  truths  which  seems  to  me  most  needed 
in  the  modern  rehgious  world,  that  the  type  of  a  Christian's 
virtue  must  be  very  miserable,  and  ordinary,  and  ineffectual, 
if  he  does  not  feel  his  whole  soul  burn  within  him  with  an 
almost  implacable  moral  indignation  at  the  sight  of  cruelty 
and  injustice,  of  Pharisaic  faithlessness  and  social  crimes. 


I  have  thus  freely  criticised  the  radical  defects  of  Stoic- 
ism, so  far  as  Seneca  is  its  legitimate  exponent ;  but  I  can- 
not consent  to  leave  him  with  the  language  of  depreciation, 
and  therefore  here  I  will  oiice  more  endorse  what  an  anony- 
mous writer  has  said  of  him  :  *^  An  unconscious  Christianltv 
covers  all  his  sentiments.  If  the  fair  fame  of  the  man  is 
sullied,  the  aspiration  to  a  higher  life  cannot  be  denied  to 
the  philosopher  ;  if  the  tinkling  cymbal  of  a  stilted  Stoicism 
sometimes  sounds  through  the  nobler  music,  it  still  leaves 
the  truer  melody  vibrating  on  the  ear." 
y  2.  If  Seneca  sought  for  Ease,  the  grand  aim  of  Epictetus 
was  Ereedom,  of  Marcus  Aurelius  was  Self-Government. 
This  difference  of  aim  characterises  their  entire  philosophy, 
though  all  three  of  them  are  filled  with  precepts  which  arise 
from  the  Stoical  contempt  of  opinion,  of  fortune,  and  of 
death.  ^'  Epictetus,  the  slave,  with  imperturbable  calm, 
voluntarily  strikes  off  the  desire  for  all  those  blessings  of 
which  fortune  had  already  deprived  him.  Seneca,  who 
lived  in  the  Court,  fenced  himself  beforehand  against  mis- 
fortune with  the  spirit  of  a  man  of  the  world  and  the  em- 
phasis of  a  master  of  eloquence.  Marcus  Aurelius,  at  the 
zenith  of  human  power — having  nothing  to  dread  except  his 
passions,  and  finding  nothing  above  him  except  immutable 
necessity, — surveys  his  own  soul  and  meditates  especially 
on  the  eternal  march  of  things.  The  one  is  the  resigned 
slave,  who  neither  desires  nor  fears;  the  other,  tlie  great 
lord,  who  has  everything  to  lose ;  the  third,  finally,  the  em- 
peror, who  is  dependent  only  on  him:-:e!f  and  upon  God." 

Of  Epictetus  and  Marcus  AureHus  we  shall  have  very 
little  to  say  by  way  of  summary,  for  they  show  no  inconsis- 
tencies and  very  few  of  the  imperfections  which  characterise 
Seneca's  ideal  of  the  Stoic  philosophy.     The  '*  moral  ped- 


302 


COXCLUSIOX. 


CONCL  US  ION, 


303 


dling,"  the  pedagogic  display,  the  puerile  ostentation,  the 
antithetic  briUiancy,  which  we  have  liad  to  point  out  in 
Seneca,  are  wanting  in  them.  Tlie  picture  of  the  inncr\\{Q^ 
indeed,  of  Seneca,  his  efforts  after  self-discipline,  his  untir- 
ing asceticism,  his  enthusiasm  for  all  that  he  esteems  holy 
and  of  good  report — this  picture,  marred  as  it  is  by  rhetoric 
and  vain  self-conceit,  yet  *' stands  out  in  noble  contrast  to 
the  swinishness  of  the  Campanian  villas,  and  is,  in  its  com- 
plex entirety,  very  sad  and  affecting."  And  yet  we  must 
admit,  in  the  words  of  the  same  writer,  that  when  we  go 
from  Seneca  to  Epictetus  and  Marcus  Aurelius,  ''it  is  going 
from  the  florid  to  the  severe,  from  varied  feeling  to  the  im- 
personal simphcity  of  the  teacher,  often  from  idle  rhetoric 
to  devout  earnestness."  As  far  as  it  goes,  the  morality  of 
these  two  great  Stoics  is  entirely  noble  and  entirely  beauti- 
ful. If  there  be  even  in  F.pictetus  some  passing  and  occa- 
sional touch  of  Stoic  arrogance  and  Stoic  apathy  ]/\i  there 

be  in  Marcus  Aurelius  a  depth  and  intensity  of  sadness 
which  shows  how  comparatively  powerless  for  comfort  was 
a  philosophy  which  glorified  suicide,  which  knew  but  little 
of  immortality,  and  which  lost  in  vague  Pantheism  the  un- 
speakable blessing  of  realizing  a  personal  relation  to  a  per- 
sonal God  and  Father-there  is  yet  in  both  of  them  enough 
and  more  than  enough  to  show  that  in  all  ages  and  in  all 
countries  they  who  have  sought  for  God  have  found 
Him,  that  they  have  attained  to  high  principles  of  thought 
and  to  high  standards  of  action — that  they  have  been 
enabled,  even  in  the  thick  darkness,  resolutely  to  place 
their  feet  at  least  on  the  lowest  rounds  of  that  ladder  of 
sunbeams  which  winds  up  through  the  darkness  to  the  great 
Father  of  Lights. 


And  yet  the  very  existence  of  such  men  is  in  itself 
a  significant  comment  upon  the  Scriptural  decision 
that  ''the  world  by  wisdom  knew  not  God."  For 
how  many  like  them,  out  of  all  the  records  of  anti- 
quity, is  it  possible  for  us  to  count  ?  Are  there  five 
men  in  the  whole  circle  of  ancient  history  and  ancient 
literature  to  whom  we  could,  without  a  sense  of  incon- 
gruity, accord  tlie  title  of  "  holy  ?"  When  wc  have 
mentioned  Socrates,  Epictetus,  and  Marcus  Aurelius, 
I  hardly  know  of  another.  Just  men  there  were 
in  multitudes — men  capable  of  high  actions  ;  men 
eminently  worthy  to  be  loved;  men,  I  doubt  not, 
who,  when  the  children  of  the  kingdom  shall  be  re- 
jected, shall  be  gathered  from  the  east  and  the  west 
with  Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob,  into  the  kingdom  of 
heaven.  Yes,  just  men  in  multitudes ;  but  how  many 
righteous^  how  many  holy  i  Some,  doubtless,  whom 
we  do  not  know,  whose  names  were  never  written, 
even  for  a  few  years,  on  the  records  of  mankind — men 
and  women  in  unknown  villages  and  humble  homes, 
"the  faithful  who  were  not  famous."  AVe  do  not  doubt 
that  there  were  such — but  were  they  7'elatively  numer- 
ous ?  If  those  who  rose  above  the  level  of  the  multi- 
tude— if  those  whom  some  form  of  excellence,  and  often 
of  virtue,  elevated  into  the  reverence  of  their  fellows — 
present  to  us  a  few  examples  of  stainless  life,  can  we  hope 
that  a  tolerable  ideal  of  sanctity  was  attained  by  any  large 
proportion  of  the  ordinary  myriads  ?  Seeing  that  the  dan- 
gerous lot  of  the  majority  was  cast  amid  the  weltering  sea 
of  popular  depravity,  can  we  venture  to  hope  that  many 
of  them  succeeded  in  reaching  some  green  island  of  purity, 
integrity,  and  calm  ?     We  can  hardly  think   it ;  and  yet,  in 


304 


CONCLUSION. 


the  dispensation  of  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  we  see  such  a 
condition  daily  reaHzed.  Not  only  do  we  see  many  of  the 
eminent,  but  also  countless  multitudes  of  the  lowly  and  ob- 
scure, whose  common  lives  are,  as  it  were,  transfigured  with 
a  light  from  heaven.  Unhappy,  indeed,  is  he  who  has  not 
known  such  men  in  person,  and  whose  hopes  and  habits 
have  not  caught  some  touch  of  radiance  reflected  from  the 
nobility  and  virtue  of  lives  like  these.  The  thought  has 
been  well  expressed  by  the  author  of  Eccc  Hoino^  and  we 
may  well  ask  with  him,  "If  this  be  so,  has  Christ  failed,  or 
can  Christianity  die  ?'^ 

No,  it  has  not  failed;  it  cannot  die  ;  for  the  saving  know- 
ledge which  it  has  imparted  is  the  most  inestimable  blessing 
which  Ciod  has  granted  to  our  race.  We  have  watched 
philosophy  in  its  loftiest  flight,  but  that  flight  rose  as  far 
above  the  range  of  the  Pagan  populace  as  Ida  or  Olympus 
rises  above  the  plain :  and  even  the  topmost  crests  of  Ida 
and  Olympus  are  immeasurably  below  the  blue  vault,  the 
body  of  heaven  in  its  clearness,  to  which  it  has  been  granted 
to  some  Christians  to  attain.  As  regards  the  multitude, 
philosophy  had  no  influence  over  the  heart  and  character; 
''  it  was  sectarian,  not  universal ;  the  religion  of  the  few,  not 
of  the  many.  It  exercised  no  creative  power  ov(y  political 
or  social  life  ;  it  stood  in  no  such  relation  to  the  past  as  the 
New  Testament  to  the  Old.  Its  best  thoughts  were  but 
views  and  aspects  of  the  truth  ;  there  was  no  centre  around 
which  they  moved,  no  divine  life  by  which  they  were  nn- 
pelled ;  they  seemed  to  vanish  and  flit  in  uncertain  succession 
of  light."  But  Christianity,  on  the  other  hand,  glowed  with 
a  steady  and  unwavering  brightness  ;  it  not  only  swayed  the 
hearts  of  individuals  by  stirring  them  to  their  utmost  depths, 
but  it  moulded  the  laws  of  nations,  and  regenerated  the 


CONCL  US  ION 


30s 


whole  condition  of  society.  It  gave  to  mankind  a  fresh 
sanction  in  the  word  of  Christ,  a  perfect  example  in  His 
life,  a  powerful  motive  in  His  love,  an  all  suftlcient  comfort 
in  the  life  of  immortahty  made  sure  and  certain  to  us  by 
His  Resurrection  and  Ascension.  But  if  without  this  sanc- 
tion, and  example,  and  motive,  and  comfort,  the  pagans 
could  learn  to  do  His  will, — if,  amid  the  gross  darkness 
through  which  glitters  the  degraded  civilization  of  imperial 
Rome,  an  Epictetus  and  an  Aurelius  could  live  blameless 
lives  in  a  cell  and  on  a  throne,  and  a  Seneca  could  practise 

simplicity  and  self-denial  in  the  midst  of  luxury  and  pride 

how  much  loftier  should  be  both  the  zeal  and  the  attain- 
ments of  us  to  whom  God  has  si)oken  by  His  Son  .^  What 
manner  of  men  ought  we  to  be  ?  If  Tyre  and  Sidon  and 
Sodom  shall  rise  in  the  judgment  to  bear  witness  against 
Chorazin  and  Bethsaida,  may  not  tlie  pure  lives  of  tliese 
great  Seekers  after  God  add  a  certain  emphasis  of  condem- 
nation to  the  vice,  the  pettiness,  the  mammon-worship  of 
many  among  us  to  whom  His  love.  His  nature.  His  at- 
tributes have  been  revealed  with  a  clearness  and  fullness  of 
knowledge  for  which  kings  and  i)hilosophers  have  sought  in- 
deed and  sought  earnestly,  but  sought  in  vain  ? 


THK  ENDo 


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